


Something Like Love

by Calais_Reno



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canadian John Watson, Don’t copy to another site, Grief/Mourning, Guilty Pleasures, Hotel Sex, Infidelity, M/M, One Night Stands, POV Alternating, Pre and Post Reichenbach, Separations, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-02-29 04:41:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18771400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: The last time, it was transactional, uncomplicated. Now, it’s something else. Last time they got the basics covered in a twenty minute conversation, went to Sherlock’s hotel. In the morning, they’d parted ways easily, knowing they would never see one another again.But Sherlock, socially tone-deaf, has made everything awkward. What was a perfect movie— exposition, climax, end credits rolling— is now the disappointing sequel nobody asked for.Except he did. He asked John, and John said yes.Summary: A year after a one-night encounter in a hotel in Germany, Sherlock texts Watson.





	1. Encore

2009 January 1

_— Happy New YearSH_

— Who is SH? I don’t know this number.

_— Sherlock.  SH_

John sits up and rubs his eyes. That name. If he weren’t half asleep… Then he remembers.

— The hotel in Frankfurt?

It’s like waking up from a vaguely unsettling dream, he thinks, the kind you’re glad you can’t entirely remember— and then realising that you’re still dreaming.

_—You remember. SH_

_—_ How did you get this number?

_— You’re a doctor. Your clinic has a website with numbers and emails and things. SH_

— This is my cell number. Not listed.

_— I may have looked at your mobile while you were asleep. SH_

_— A_ bit creepy. Are you stalking me?

_— Don’t be ridiculous, John. I retained your number and found it tonight when I was looking through my contacts. SH_

_—_ Why are you texting me? It’s the middle of the night here.

_— As I said, Happy New Year. Here in London, we’ve already rung in the new year. SH_

— It’s been months.

— _Eleven months and four days, to be exact. SH_

— Why suddenly, after all this time, are you texting me?

_— Perhaps I’m sentimental. SH_

_—_ I don’t even know your last name. I thought that was part of the…whatever it was we had. We weren’t getting involved. Just a one night…thing.

_— Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. It’s a new year. Why are you not celebrating? SH_

— Because… I worked a full shift, I’m tired, and… never mind. Well, nice chatting. Think I’ll try going back to sleep.

_— You’re in bed. Your wife is asleep. SH_

_—_ Yes. No. Actually, I’m standing in the bathroom so she won’t ask me who I’m texting.

— _You’ve reconciled, then. SH_

— We never… we hadn’t quarrelled or anything. It was just a… I don’t know what it was…

— _You were in a bar in a foreign country trying to pick up men. Theoretically, your marriage might be happy, but it seems more likely that you thought having a wife might make you straight, or at least appear to be so, but then realised that gayness is not something marriage can cure, and were seeking an experience that would help you discern whether you want to leave your wife or remain in the marriage. The fact that you’re sharing a bed with her tells me that you either reconciled or are still undecided. SH_

— Piss off.

— _Sorry. I forget sometimes. SH_

— What do you forget?

— _That my deductions, however accurate, are generally unwelcome when they concern people’s private lives. SH_

— Well, Happy New Year. Going back to bed now.

— _I’ll be in Las Vegas in a couple weeks. Thought we might meet up. SH_

— Why?

— _You’re in Toronto. I’m in London. Seems like a good half-way point. And I noticed there's a medical conference the same week. Thought you might be able to get away. SH_

Las Vegas is halfway to nowhere, he thinks. It’s halfway to hell. Certainly not halfway between London and Toronto. He spent one night with Sherlock and that, in retrospect, was a terrible idea. This is a terrible idea too.

— I mean why should we meet up at all? Our entire relationship was a few hours. One night.

— _They were very good hours. I remember that night fondly. SH_

He sometimes has full body shivers thinking of that night. When he’s making love to his wife, he thinks of that night. When he puts his hand on himself, he thinks of that night. _Fond_ is not the word for it. He can’t even think of a word that encompasses that night.

— This is just… out of the blue. I never expected anything after. I’ve got to go.

— _Your wife is waking up. She’s wondering why you’re in the loo so long. SH_

— How the bloody hell… look, I’ve got to go.

— _You have my number. SH_

 

As it happens, the clinic where he works needs someone to attend a conference entitled Battling Medical Misinformation in the Era of Social Media. Since part of his duties include writing for the clinic’s blog, Dr John Watson is the logical person to send. Plane tickets are ordered, a hotel reservation made. He will arrive the afternoon of January 29 and leave February 2.

— Staying at the Hilton near the Convention Center. Where are you?

— _I can share a room with you. SH_

— You’re optimistic.

— _Why wouldn’t I be? SH_

— Because you don’t even know me.

_— I know you were in the army, are married, and unhappy. You like gay sex. As for me, I like soldiers, I don’t care if you’re married, and gay sex will make us both happy. What could go wrong? SH_

— What are you in Las Vegas for, anyway?

— _A case. Rather boring, but an opportunity to spend time with you. SH_

— ‘Spend time’ being a euphemism for ‘have sex.’

_— Yes. Problem? SH_

— No problem.

 

29 January 2009 / Las Vegas

Sherlock knocks; the door opens and he stands facing the man.

The military bearing is still there, he decides. He remembers clearly the soldier on leave he’d met in Frankfurt (not the city _he_ would have chosen for furlough), his uniform trim over a compact, muscular body. He acknowledges his attraction to soldiers. Not quite a kink, he thinks, but certainly a preference. He’s a small man, this soldier. Being fairly tall himself (three inches above average), Sherlock finds it proportional to desire a man who is as many inches below average as he is above. John’s ears are at Sherlock’s chin level. His hair is blond laced with silver (70/30 ratio), and his eyes are of the deepest cobalt blue. He’s a handsome man, this doctor.

Deducing John’s life was not good, he realises now. Or maybe it was texting him at midnight, out of the blue, that wasn’t good. The man is not hostile, but a bit distant. He may resent the deduction Sherlock made about his wife. That doesn’t mean it isn’t true.

He’d confessed that he was married a year ago, when they met in Frankfurt. It didn’t require any brilliant deductions to determine this. The ring openly proclaimed it. When Sherlock pointed out the irony of a man wearing his wedding ring to a gay bar, he nodded, embarrassed. Four years, Sherlock guessed. He’d realised his mistake before the first anniversary.

“I just… maybe I’m more than… well, there it is.” These words, spoken all those months ago, had explained nothing. His expression said it all. He regretted the marriage, was still married only because of— _a child_?

Sherlock didn’t ask.

Now he is no longer a surgeon, but working at a clinic. He found the website with John’s picture and bio. Silently observing his posture and stance, noting the cane, Sherlock deduces the injury that made him give up his surgical career. _Shoulder wound; leg pain is psychosomatic._ The man he met a year ago, who seemed designed for happiness, now carries the burdens of his life like a heavy, ill-fitting yoke of despair. Less muscular, more stressed, a bit depressed.

“Hey,” says John. In the doorway of his hotel room, he’s standing at parade rest, looking at Sherlock, his funny little brain no doubt trying to sort out why he's having a second one-night stand with a man whose last name he only recently learned. The man is clearly a danger addict.

“Come in,” he says.

And here they are.

Sherlock is used to feeling awkward. He routinely misgauges social situations, says things that horrify people. Those who know him well have given up trying to school him into a less sociopathic way of interacting. Well, Mycroft has given up. Victor has never cared.

“How was your flight?” John asks.

People always ask him this when he flies, as if air travel were so novel and dangerous that they are amazed he’s beaten the odds. No engine trouble, no high-jackers, no ocean landing. No smoke filling the cabin as the plane descends at an angle that makes the service carts go racing down the aisle. No people elbowing one another for a spot on the rubber raft. Minor turbulence, no drinks spilled. Horrible food served with plastic cutlery. He doesn’t say any of this. He settles on an adjective to describe the routine tedium of a trans-Atlantic flight. “Uneventful.”

“Well,” John says. He licks his lips, nods. “Good to see you again.”

Sherlock deduces that John still hasn’t made up his mind. It dawns on him that maybe this is, in fact, a bad idea. The last time, they were both a little bit drunk, and it was clear what they both wanted. It was transactional, uncomplicated. Now, it’s something else. Conversation will be necessary, and neither of them will know what to say. Last time they got the basics covered in a twenty minute conversation, went to Sherlock’s hotel and completed the transaction. In the morning, they’d parted ways easily, knowing they would never see one another again.

But Sherlock, socially tone-deaf, has made everything awkward. What was a perfect movie— exposition, climax, end credits rolling— is now the disappointing sequel nobody asked for.

Except he did. He asked John, and John said _yes_.

He wonders. _What does that mean?_

He observes. The doctor is uneasy, looks guilty, He smiled when he opened the door, but now he’s shifting his eyes away.

But he said _yes._

John runs a hand though his hair, making it stand in spikes. “Look. I have this thing to go to. A cocktail party, mixer thing. I'll be back in a couple hours.”

Sherlock nods. “I have things to do as well. Text me when your mixer ends.”

 

Sherlock works from the room, texting, researching, making notes. His phone chimes. It’s John, texting him at last to say he is on his way to the room.

— Stopping at store. Anything you need?

He doesn’t know how to answer this. What type of store? Need for what?

— _Nothing I can think of.SH_

Twenty minutes later, he hears a card in the door and a click as John enters.

“I'm clean,” he announces, dropping the bag on the bed. “But I suppose we should use protection.”

“I'm clean as well. I was tested before I left. And I trust you.”

“Why?” John frowns. “You've deduced a lot about me, but you don't seem like a person who trusts many people.”

“Your deduction is accurate. Nevertheless, I have decided to trust you. But if you prefer protection, I am prepared.” He tries to smile, but the social niceties are beginning to wear him down and it feels artificial. “Tell me what you prefer, John. Would you like to have dinner first, or shall we have sex and eat later? We could get room service perhaps. I looked at the menu while you were gone.”

John blinks. His tongue darts out, passes over his lips. “Erm. I can wait. They had some snacks at the mixer. So, yeah. If you are okay with dinner later.”

Sherlock nods. “Shall we, then?” His jacket is already hanging in the closet. He stands and begins to unbutton his shirt.

John laughs nervously. “Not much of a romantic, are you?” From the bag, he pulls a bottle of wine. “Maybe a drink first? Last time, you liked red, so I picked up a bottle of some…” He peers at the label. A kangaroo is pictured there. “Shiraz. Is that okay?”

“CVS has a lovely cellar. I've been dying to try their 2009.”

John rolls his eyes. “Okay, you're a wine snob. I’ve offended you by picking up a bottle at a drug store. Sorry.”

He grins. “Whatever you bought is fine. There are cups by the mirror.”

“Cheap wine out of plastic cups seems appropriate,” John says, unscrewing the top of the bottle. He pours them each a half glass. “Shall we let it breathe?”

Sherlock chuckles and raises his glass. “Cheers.”

They sip in silence for a few minutes.

“Happy anniversary,” John says. “We met a year ago today.”

“Indeed we did.” _A useless sentiment_ , he thinks. But perhaps recognising the uselessness will allow them to get by the awkwardness. “Many happy returns.”

John swallows. “Seriously? I thought this was, erm, just a… well, What is it?”

“Whatever you like. No obligations.” He drains his glass and sets it on the table. “Now, come here.” Settling back on the bed, he opens his arms.

 

It’s hard to define what it is about John Watson that is so attractive, why Sherlock enjoys this contact so much when generally being touched is abhorrent to him. The man is hardly a conversationalist, barely a communicator, if he is honest. He recalls the first time he saw him, across a tavern in Frankfurt. John was with a few buddies who were trying to get him to take the mic for karaoke night. A surprisingly good voice, Sherlock remembered, though that was not what made him watch. Handsome, compact, shy, with the temporary boldness that alcohol produces. Not a great dancer, but the sexy hip thrusts told him that he had learned a few tricks from observing strippers.

He summoned the bar girl, had a drink sent over to him. John came over to thank him, and Sherlock had done something he'd never before considered doing.

 _Come up to my room_ , he'd said. John smiled and said, _all right_.

It wasn't any particular signal that had tipped him off. It was simply the way the man had looked at him with unabashed longing. Sherlock wanted to rip his clothes off and run his hands over those muscles. He wanted to explore the promising trouser bulge he'd observed during the gyrations. That night he'd wanted, and he'd asked.

John was a good kisser.

 

The awkwardness passes as they slide into bed. No need for conversation now. It feels both familiar and new. Sherlock watches as John removes his undershirt, revealing a scar of horrific proportions. A year ago, he’d told Sherlock, _yeah, I’ve been lucky_. As a doctor, treating injuries that would change lives, he’d been aware that his own luck might not last. The odds of dying in a car accident might be higher than being shot by the Taliban, but most people don’t think about that when they pull out of their driveways, heading for work. Soldiers think about death and injury all the time.

Perhaps that was why John had accepted Sherlock’s invitation that night in Frankfurt. A man who feels death watching his every move might seek pleasure where he could find it, even while wearing his wedding ring. Every time, he might think, _this could be the last._

Now John is different. Luckier than many, but still scarred. Not desperate, but slowly filling with despair. He needs this, Sherlock senses. Maybe he needs to remember the man in Frankfurt who slept with a stranger on a whim. Maybe he needs to forget what his life is now.

“May I?” Sherlock asks.

John nods, and Sherlock touches the scar gently, tracing the entrance and exit wounds, front and back, imagining how it happened. He was kneeling, treating a comrade, when the bullet ripped through his shoulder, killing the other man and ending John’s surgical career. The scar hasn’t yet flattened out or faded to silver. It is a twisted, red map of shiny, raised flesh. “How long ago?”

“It happened in March.” John lets out a slow breath and closes his eyes. “I would still be there, you know. In Afghanistan. If this hadn’t happened.”

 _He misses it._ “Is it painful?”

“It aches sometimes. Weather and… things… Tingles, numb. I did physio for weeks, but it’s still weak. Hand trembles. Can’t do surgery.”

“But you’re working again.”

“Just a clinic job, a few weeks now. Considering what it could have been, I’m lucky. I guess.”

Sherlock leans towards the scar, kisses it lightly. It feels like an intimate act, almost more intimate than what they are about to do.

John looks into his eyes. He kisses Sherlock on the lips, a kiss as light as the one Sherlock had pressed to his shoulder. This kiss leads to other kisses, and soon there are no words. It’s rough and heated, both of them desperate for something.

 

John is not a stranger to sex with a man. Though he bills himself as straight, he has in the past experimented with other men. Sometimes, in fact, he prefers sex with men. _Fewer communication issues, less drama_. John looks at Sherlock, his long, ivory limbs, his dark curls and azure eyes, and he wants. Simple, ineffable want.

As they slide towards one another under the bedclothes, warm bodies meeting beneath cool hotel sheets, he isn’t thinking about the fact that he might be gay. He’s thinking, _this man is gorgeous, sexy, and wants me_. He strokes the abs, the chest, the masculine body he’s lying next to, and he doesn’t care what it means. He escapes, eagerly putting his mouth around Sherlock’s engorged cock, licking and sucking and letting his mind go. Sherlock utters sounds that cannot be translated, but are perfectly understood. He needs this. They both do.

 

Sweat cooling, they lie on their own sides of the bed. It’s a huge bed, large enough that they could spend the entire night here without touching. Sherlock wants to touch, but isn’t sure whether post-coital cuddling is something they do.

John is lying on his back with his hands behind his neck, staring at the ceiling. “I’m still married,” he says. Raises his good shoulder, half a shrug. _Uncertain_. _Regretful_.

“Not really my business,” Sherlock says, rolling a bit closer, but still not touching. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

He nods. Sherlock watches as the gears spin, his mouth uncertain, trying to frame a question. He will begin in the way he begins most of his sentences. _So…_

“So,” John says. “Do you… um… do this a lot?” He laughs nervously.“I mean, the one night thing. Should I be flattered that I've been asked for an encore?”

“No, and yes, I suppose.”

John turns to look at him, puzzled. “So…”

He explains. “I don't do one night stands. Just that one time. And it wasn’t, of course, since here we are once more. If you’d like to take it as a compliment that I wanted to see you again, feel free.”

It's not exactly a compliment, but Sherlock isn't sure how to explain. To say, _I don't like strangers touching me, but you felt familiar from the first_ — that just sounds weird. And it might feel like pressure for something more. It was never his intent to barge into John’s life, break up his marriage, or start a long-term liaison. He just wanted to have sex with him, but then, he wondered—

“I don't either.” John is studying the ceiling again. “I mean, not since I married.” He huffs a short laugh. “I'll stop talking about that, I guess.”

“But you’d had sex with men prior to our last encounter.” He was going to say _date_ , but something about that word (applied to what they in fact did) seems silly. They met in a pub, talked for twenty minutes, and had sex. Several times. Not a _date_. “Perhaps at uni?”

“Yeah. When I was younger, in college, I did… experiment.”

“And in the army?” This is pure nosiness talking now. A bit voyeuristic, feeding his own military fantasies.

John shrugs again, closes his eyes.

Sherlock takes this as a _yes_. He moves closer to John, lays his hand on his belly. Sensing his breath quickening, he slides his hand lower. “Let me,” he whispers.

A quick intake of breath. “Yes.”

 

John’s days are filled with pointless meetings. He makes excuses when he’s asked to join colleagues for dinner or drinks. _I’m meeting an old roommate tonight,_ he says. All day he drinks terrible coffee out of styrofoam cups and wonders what Sherlock is doing. He looks forward to the nights.

He calls Mary once, at the midday break. At night, the conversation would drag on, even though they have nothing to say to one another. She would ask if he’s seen anyone he knows, colleagues from med school or Med Corps buddies. She would want to tell him what went on at the clinic (nothing), and he would tell her how boring his conference is. He might say _I can’t wait to get home._ And this would be a lie; he doesn’t look forward to it. He calls at noon, when he's grabbing a sandwich. He doesn’t want to have that conversation sitting on the bed in his hotel room, even if Sherlock is out. It might be guilt he feels, or possibly something else.

Four nights. They get room service one night, takeout the next, drink terrible wine, laugh about horrible, sleazy reality television. Sherlock tells him about his case, the people he interviews, how he figures it all out. John counters with medical horror stories, complains about how boring the presenters are, how everyone struts their own credentials. John doesn’t mention his marriage again, and Sherlock doesn’t talk about whoever might be waiting for him in London. John can’t think about those things. He pretends that this is just them, John and Sherlock.

Last time it was just the one night— frantic, forbidden pleasure, the greatest sex John has ever had. This time it’s almost like being roommates. Or lovers. It’s intimate in a way he’s never known intimacy. One showers while the other shaves. Their jackets hang next to each other in the tiny closet. They share out sections of the newspaper, make coffee with the tiny machine in the room. He doesn’t want it to end.

Neither one of them talks about what this is. To define it seems dangerous. They don’t ever say the words _next time._

 

“This was good,” John says on the last day. They're packing their bags, both having planes to catch.

Sherlock smiles. “Indeed.”

They fall silent again, gathering their things, checking the closet and drawers, tossing away old boarding passes and takeout menus.

He takes a final look around the room. Sherlock has a later flight, says he has a couple errands to run before heading to the airport.

John nods, smiles, and feels awkward. It would seem strange to shake the hand of a man he’s been having sex with for four days, as if they were people who barely know each other. It would seem stranger to kiss him, as if they were lovers. Kissing him is what he wants to do. Sherlock gives him no clues.

“Well,” he says, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Have a good trip home.”

He's at the gate, waiting for his flight, before he notices he's forgotten his cane.


	2. Flirting

2010 January

— Happy Birthday

_— John. How did you know? SH_

— You’re not the only one who can make deductions.

_— Or go through someone’s wallet while they’re asleep. SH_

_—_ You left it out. And a good detective always looks for clues.

— _I’m flattered, doctor. Thank you for the sentiment. SH_

— So, what are you doing to celebrate?

_— Why should I celebrate the fact that I was born? SH_

_—_ Because you can. What time does the party start?

_— I leave it for others to celebrate my existence. SH_

— Come on. Cake? Presents? Funny hats?

— _Parties are not my area. SH_

— Friends hiding in a dark room, jumping out and yelling Surprise?

— _Especially not surprise parties SH_

— Not even a pub night with friends?

_— I don’t have friends. And I’m not fond of beer. SH_

— I remember. You were drinking wine that night in Frankfurt.

_— I was. And not much of that. SH_

— You were trying to get me drunk, weren’t you?

_— Of course. I wanted to see what those army trousers were hiding. SH_

— I think you wanted to do more than just look.

_— Is this flirting? SH_

— Do you want it to be?

— _I’m not very good at it. Not seeing you makes it difficult. SH_

— Then you probably don’t want to know about sexting.

— _Probably not. SH_

— Why don’t you have friends?

_— I’m a solitary person. SH_

— Alone on your birthday. No friends. That’s more than solitary. Are you a hermit?

— _There are days. SH_

_—_ Well, you’re texting flirty messages at me today. I feel special.

— _You are exceptional in many ways, John. SH_

John hesitates, uncertain what to say. What was meant to be a light, teasing conversation suddenly feels fraught with… something. He wonders if Sherlock is lonely, or if something is worrying him. Maybe it’s just that it’s his birthday. No matter how much he pretends not to care, birthdays can be lonely, even when surrounded by well-meaning friends. Thus far, they have carefully avoided dwelling on real life issues. Best to keep it somewhat light, he decides. He doesn’t want to embarrass Sherlock, or force more intimacy than this can stand.

He types.

— You as well. And together we have had some exceptional moments. Maybe we could do that again. I mean, if you want.

_— I’ll be in New York in a couple of weeks. Just a short trip. Can you get away? SH_

_—_ I’ll be there.

— _Excellent. SH_

— Is this becoming a thing?

— _Perhaps. Do you want it to become a thing? SH_

— It feels like we’re heading there. Look at how much ground we’ve already covered. We know one another’s first and last names. I know your birthday. And you’ve deduced just about everything about me.

— _Not everything. Still collecting data. SH_

— What would you like to know?

— _I’ll prepare a questionnaire. SH_

— Sexy.

— _So, will you come to New York?SH_

— Hm. The idea of providing data for you is hard to resist.

_— And I can practice flirting with you. SH_

— You have much to learn, Grasshopper. When and where?

— _I’ll send you the information once I’ve made a reservation._

— Looking forward to it.

 

Sherlock is making hotel reservations when Victor comes home. He looks up from his laptop. “The rent is due,” he announces.

Victor puts on that face, a mixture of apology and bravado, the one that often gets him what he needs. “I’m a bit short.”

“Really.”

“Can you cover me this month?”

“No.”

“Come on, Sherlock. I would cover for you.” Victor tries a different face, the one that suggests affection and good intentions. “Ask your brother. Just this once.”

“I will not be asking my brother for money.”

“Even if we lose the lease?”

“Perhaps you should be looking for more affordable accommodations,” Sherlock says.

Victor laughs. “Are you throwing me out?”

“I’m merely stating the reality. For the last six months, you have four times failed to come up with your portion of the rent when due, which suggests that this flat is more than you can afford, given your typical expenditures. If you wish to continue as flatmates, I am amenable. But I will not be paying your obligations.”

Victor laughs again, meaner this time. “As if there is anyone is the world who might want to share a flat with Sherlock Holmes!”

He’s looking at a hotel in Manhattan. A bit pricey, he decides. Nice location, but it’s not as if they’re going sight-seeing. Even hotels in the boroughs are expensive, he notes. Perhaps there is something cheaper outside the city that will serve just as well.

Victor sighs. “And now, you’re ignoring me. Shall we make this an official fight? We could yell and throw things. Or we could just have sex and go to sleep. Tomorrow, I’ll find the money and pay you back.”

“I’m going to New York for a few days,” he replies. “Have the money by the time I return.”

“Deal.” Victor grins. “Coming to bed?”

He feels an odd reluctance that defies analysis. His relationship with Victor has always been a compromise of sorts. They get along well enough, the sex is adequate, and he really has no wish to end it, even though Victor has become predictable and sometimes difficult. It’s convenient, but boring. And yet, leaving feels like too much effort.

In a few days he’ll be seeing John, and that thought evokes very different feelings. Juxtaposing the two creates a paradox. He has Victor, but doesn’t really want him. He wants John, but can’t ever have him.

“Later,” he says. “Things to do.”

 

“Rosie’s asking for a dog.”

It's been so long since John has actually asked Mary anything, it almost feels like he's trying to make waves, upset the silent detente they’ve attained.

She has always managed the home and called all the shots on Rosie's upbringing, and he admits that she does motherhood well. During Rosie’s baby years, she overruled him most of the time— vetoing a dummy, dictating the order of foods to be introduced, outlawing anything with added sugar. She lectured John about sleep hygiene, food allergies, and age-appropriate toys.

John was raised by fairly lax parents who didn't worry about what he ate, where he slept, or when he decided to use the toilet. He never had proper toys, began playing with his Dad’s tools when he was three. As a result, there were many plasters, lots of iodine, and several visits to the emergency department of the local hospital for stitches. His parents never worried too much. But he had turned out all right, he thought. Mary's response to this was simply a look that said it all. She was the mother, the authority on all things relating to children. He was a mere man, and apparently one brought up by people who didn’t know what they were doing.

He has only raised the dog question now because Rosie, knowing her mother's feelings about pets, has appealed to John. He will do it for Rosie, but they both know his opinion doesn't matter.

“No,” she says. Done. It's not going to be a discussion. Not even a tiny one.

“I told her we would talk about it.” 

“This is not good parenting,” she replies. “You're letting her play us off against one another. For that reason alone, I say no. She needs to know that when one of us says no, she can't run to the other for a second opinion. United front, no negotiation.”

John tries to remember when Rosie ever went to Mary about something he had told he to do. Rosie is smart. She knows that John's not the one who decides things. She always asks Mary, rarely appeals to John. That she asked him to try changing Mary’s mind shows how important the dog is to her.

“Could we let her earn it, like a privilege?” he suggests. “I mean, you said that you were afraid the responsibility would all fall on you— the feeding, walking, cleaning up—”

Mary rolls her eyes as if she can't believe they are even discussing it. “No. She's not old enough to make promises. Why set her up to fail?”

“She has to start sometime,” he says. “I’ll help her.”

At this, she laughs. “You?”

“I've had dogs. I know what it entails.”

“You grew up differently,” she says. “We own a house with carpets, not a dirt-floor cabin; we have a garden and a lawn, not a barnyard. We don't live in a—”

“Fine,” he says.

He knows what she’s thinking. Though the house where he grew up didn’t have dirt floors, his mother was never overly-fastidious about sweeping. It was an old hunting cabin his father had bought and fixed up, with wooden floors and a potbelly stove and an outhouse. That was his father’s dream, to live in antiquated poverty. To chop wood so he wouldn’t be beholden to the power company. To refuse connection to the county water lines because he had a perfectly good well. Goats and chickens lived in the yard. Sometimes John slept in the barn with dogs piled all around him. His parents never cared about dead grass and dug-up flowers. Their yard was full of weeds and junk and an assortment of animals. A kids’ paradise. Yes, he was brought up by hippies.

“This weekend I’m going to visit my cousin Lila in Montreal,” she says. “Rosie will stay with the Denhams so you don't have to figure things out. Friday they’re taking the girls to the zoo for Jana’s birthday.”

_What things? Figure what out?_ “What about school?”

“No school Friday.I’ll leave in the morning, drop her off, and be back Sunday evening. The Denhams will keep her until then.”

He thinks about the excuse he'd planned to use in order to get away for a couple days, decides not to waste it. Unless she is tracking his mobile, she won't know where he is. He can be back before she returns.

It's only when she's left and he's getting on I-90 just north of Buffalo that he begins to wonder in earnest. Visiting Lila, the cousin she’s never mentioned before? It occurs to him that he may not be the only one keeping secrets.

 

Sherlock checks into the hotel, waits for John to appear. Parts of New Jersey are quite rural, he has discovered. Knowing that John is driving all the way from Toronto, he has selected a hotel west of the city, in New Jersey, to shorten his drive. The swath of the east coast between Boston and New York is basically one continuous urban area, but there are lovely towns and even patches of farmland tucked around the edges. The hotel is adequate.

In his texts, John sounds more relaxed, even flirtatious. He anticipates a good visit.

Finally he hears the keycard in the lock. The door swings open.

“I can only stay overnight,” John says, tossing his bag on the chair. “Wife’s out of town.”

Sherlock shrugs. “You’re not allowed to visit a friend?”

He rubs the back of his neck, a gesture that means he’s defensive. “It raises questions. She’ll want to know who the friend is, where you live, why you can’t come to Toronto so she can meet you, are you married, do you have kids, and so on. Easier not to mention it at all.” He sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“No problem. Well, I have a morning flight out, so shall we?” He nods at the bed.

John smiles. “I thought you were going to practice flirting with me.”

“Can we flirt naked, between the sheets?” He smiles, hoping his smile is flirtatious. He’s really not good at this. Absolute pants, to be honest.

John returns the smile. _Definitely flirtatious_. “We can.”

He quickly strips and stretches out on the bed. Hard already, he grows even harder when he sees John pull his jumper off, revealing a knit shirt, which comes off to reveal a t-shirt and then a vest. Finally, the layers are gone and his bare chest appears. His scar has faded a bit, but is still impressive. The bulge in his trousers is even more impressive.

“It must be cold in Toronto,” Sherlock comments. “So many layers.”

John smiles a bit wickedly. “I won’t need any clothes if you warm me up.” The belt hits the floor, the shoes are toed off, and trousers dropped. He is already fully erect, his pants stretched to the limit.

“Mm. I want to see you,” Sherlock hums. “Better get those off.” He nods at the pants.

John does. He crawls on top of Sherlock, licking his nipples.

“Socks,” says Sherlock.

“Mm?”

“You’re still wearing your socks.”

“Cold feet. Problem?”

“Not very sexy.”

John giggles and sucks Sherlock’s nipple. “I’ll show you sexy.” He sits up and takes their cocks together in his hand, smears the precome over both.

Sherlock takes in the sight of John’s careful surgeon’s hands stroking them. He groans. “John.”

“God, you’re beautiful,” John says. “I can’t even—” They begin to kiss in earnest.

“Not going to last,” Sherlock gasps, just as John starts to finger his hole.

He doesn’t last. His body goes rigid, shuddering and spurting. He is making beautiful sounds that aren’t words.

“Sorry,” he says when his breathing begins to slow. “That was— exceptional.”

John grins. “How about you put that exceptional mouth to work on my very urgent prick?”

Sliding down his chest, he licks a stripe down to his nether regions. “Only if you take your socks off.”

John giggles again. Sherlock thinks it’s a glorious sound, one he’ll never tire of.

 

John has never actually said he’s gay. His preference for men hasn’t come up in conversation with friends. Certainly never with his wife. That door was sealed a long time ago. Well, not exactly sealed. But if someone asked him, he would deny it. He has a gay lover, but no one has to know about that.

At this point, he wears the mask. He deletes all Queen songs from his playlists, even though liking Queen isn’t a true litmus test for gayness. Nor are Broadway musicals. Deleting songs is just a precaution, in case it should ever become a question. Straight people listen to Queen and it doesn’t mean anything. He went to _Jersey Boys_ , but that was because Mary wanted to see it. His wardrobe is uninspiring, he has no artistic talents, and he doesn’t like iced coffee. Stereotypes are stupid.

Now he wonders: what if he were not married? Would he think about coming out as gay? Would he decide he was bisexual? Would he just be confused about the entire thing?

He might listen to different music sometimes. He might not apologise for going to a show, rolling his eyes and saying, _yeah, she dragged me along_.

If he were single, he might flirt with men. That night in Frankfurt, he was flirtatious, and Sherlock was receptive to his advances. They were in another country, one where John was not likely to visit often. He felt like a different person. He let himself feel attraction, wasn’t worried that a gorgeous man was buying him a drink and what would people think?

It’s idle wool-gathering. Even if he wanted to, he can’t declare himself gay now. Mary bought his straightness, and now she owns his sexuality. Except for the piece that Sherlock now owns.

He’s not sorry. He has, however, put the entire experience in a box. He does not prowl gay bars or look at naked men online. He just has this constant fantasy: he’s in love with Sherlock, they can be together, and he doesn’t have to explain his life to anyone.

 

Sherlock wraps himself around John when they have exhausted their passion. John snuggles back into his arms with a contented sigh. In twelve hours, they’ve had more sex than Sherlock has had in an entire year, he realises. What that says about his relationship with Victor is somewhat obvious. He doesn’t miss having sex with Victor; he would wait an entire year to lie next to John.

In the morning, John offers to drive him to the airport.

“I can get a cab,” he says. “Driving to the airport takes you in the opposite direction from where you need to go, and will add a minimum of two hours to your trip home.”

“It’s okay,” John wedges their bags into the boot of the car, a space which is already filled with balls and blankets and hats and mittens and what looks like a small climbing frame, disassembled. There is a car seat strapped in the back seat. “Gives us a chance to talk. We didn’t do much of that this time.”

He smiles. “I’m not complaining. Time well spent. How long is your drive?”

“About eight hours.”

“I always forget how big this country is,” he says, sliding into the front seat.

John starts the car and pulls out of the parking lot. “You completed your business?”

“I did. My older brother wanted me to interview a person of interest. Face to face is best for that kind of conversation.”

“What was the case about?”

“I can’t really say. I know that sounds intriguing, but it was actually quite boring.”

“What does your brother do?”

“Government… things.”

“He’s somebody, then.”

Sherlock snorts. “Yes. More important that you’re imagining, but less important than he believes.”

It’s not a lie, he thinks. Mycroft does give him assignments from time to time. Usually they’re things he can’t talk about. The fact that this trip was entirely Sherlock’s idea and that Mycroft knows nothing about it— well, those are definitely things he can’t talk about.

“I have a sister,” John volunteers. “She lives in California. I never see her.”

“I wish my brother lived in California,” he replies. “I see him all too frequently.” After a few beats he adds, “He would hate California. Too informal.”

John snorts. “Unless he likes Chardonnay, cannabis, and organic anything.”

Amused, Sherlock gives an answering snort. And he is certain that when he returns, Mycroft will know where he’s been, who he’s been with, and have a dossier on John. And he will warn Sherlock _not_ to waste his time on this… _thing._

_Is this becoming a thing?_ John asked him this, and he had no answer. Not for lack of thought. He has contemplated it, and reached no conclusion. It’s a rather new thing for Sherlock, this feeling of attachment to a person. His attachment to Victor, on the other hand, is purely dependent on proximity. If Victor moved to Toronto, Sherlock would delete him. And Victor would give him no further thought either. It would be amicable. The several years they didn’t see one another after uni were more a result of the mess Sherlock had made of his life— the drugs, the rehab, the drugs again, a second rehab. When Victor reappeared, Sherlock was clean, and Victor had given it up as well. They split the cost of a decent flat in central London and became sex partners. _Fuck buddies_ , Victor calls it. Nothing serious, nothing permanent. They both prefer it that way.

Sherlock wonders if he is missing something. He looks at John, driving his boring 2009 Corolla, no doubt purchased when he returned from Afghanistan to replace whatever wreck got him through med school. He smiles at the dad jeans and the stretched-out jumper he is wearing— the perfect camouflage for an extraordinary lover.

_This could become a thing,_ he decides. This epiphany is both thrilling and terrifying. There is no one else in the world he would have flown across the Atlantic for, just to spend a few hours having sex in a hotel room. If he simply wanted to get laid, he might have looked closer to home. He didn’t fly this distance just for sex; it’s John. The evidence does not lie: Sherlock feels something for him.

The question he cannot begin to consider is this: what happens now? And he can’t ask John, either. That seems to be an unspoken rule now. Not a relationship; just a _thing._ He is not sure what step will take them forward.

John pulls up in the lane labeled _Departures._ He pops the boot and hops out of the car to help pry Sherlock’s bag out. Handing it to him, he nods. “Have a safe flight.”

Sherlock fiddles with the strap of his bag, turning it until it untwists. “How am I to ensure that?”

“I mean, take care of yourself.” He grins up at Sherlock.

He smiles and shifts his bag again, looking for the British Airways sign. He can’t look at John or he’ll want to kiss him. “Of course. You as well, John.”

 

2010 February

Two weeks later, a package arrives in John’s mail. He opens it and pulls out a pair of wooly socks.

Mary looks up from unloading the dishwasher, frowns. “Who sent you those?”

Lies come more easily these days. “Army buddy. Lives in Florida, always teasing me about how cold Toronto is.”

“Does he have a name?” She’s making small, annoyed crashes with the cereal bowls and juice glasses. “I thought I knew all your _buddies.”_

He tries to read her annoyance, decides it doesn’t matter. The tangled web is already woven. “Will. You’ve heard me talk about him before.”

“I don’t recall.” She turns from the cabinet, studying him as he slips one of the socks onto his hand, feeling its weight. They are nice socks, not the kind he usually picks up at H&M.

She shrugs. Fortunately she’s out of the room when he gets the text.

_— Happy Valentine’s Day. SH_

— _Keep your feet warm. SH_


	3. Losing Side

2010 October

John types, backspaces, types again. Pauses, thinks. Hits the backspace button. Types. Hits _send._

— Hi

_Idiot,_ he thinks. _I’m an idiot._

— It’s me

He is not sure anymore how he ever earned the nickname Three Continents Watson. He seems to have lost his touch. _Double idiot._

Now the dots appear. Sherlock’s reading it, knowing that John’s an idiot. He probably already knew, but now there is irrefutable, non-deletable evidence.

— _John. How are you? SH_

Types. Backspaces. Types. Thinks about something intelligent to say. Mind goes blank. Hits _send._

— :-)

— _What is that? SH_

— It’s an emoticon. Happy face. Look at it sideways and you’ll see it. How are you?

— _Just solved a case. Serial suicides. ;-)SH_

— Your face is winking. Did you mean to wink?

— _:-oMaybe. SH_

— How can suicides be serial?

— _Cabbie forced victims at gunpoint to choose between two pills. One was poisoned. SH_

— That’s sick. How many took the poison?

— _Four. :-pSH_

— That’s really sick. Glad you caught him.

_— I don’t know if my pill was poison or not. The police arrived before I took it._ :-( _SH_

— You were going to take a pill?

— _:-/SH_

— Are you just learning about emoticons?

— ;-) _SH_

—Any trips coming up?

— _Alas, no. Things are keeping me somewhat busy here. I might be tempted, however.SH_

— I’m going to be in Amsterdam for a conference at the end of January. Can you get away?

— _Send me the dates. I’ll meet you there. SH_

 

2011 January

“So, your business is doing well,” John says. The first festivities over, they are sharing the bed. No, they are _cuddling_ in the bed. “You said the police consult with you, when they need you. How often does that happen?”

“Quite often, actually,” he replies. “And that's given me free publicity, which has brought in more clients.” A year earlier, he was mostly puffing when he described his work. Now he's actually able to turn down some cases, if they don’t interest him.

John smiles. “So, life is good.”

He shrugs in reply. “There are dry spells, where no good cases turn up.”

“Well, that gives you time for other things, doesn’t it?”

Sherlock is trying to anticipate where this conversation is going. It feels like something has changed. Things are less comfortable this time, and he wonders what is going on in John’s life that has made him wonder about Sherlock’s life. If he had to define what this relationship should look like, he wouldn’t have a clue how to begin, but discussing _other things_ feels dangerous. He wants sex. He wants John. He wants sex with John. He doesn’t want to mix John with the Work. And he definitely doesn’t want to mix John with his own personal life, however pathetic that may be.

“How’s your work at the clinic?” he asks, hoping to send John into a tangent of boring medical stories, away from questions he’d rather not answer. Actually, John is quite an interesting storyteller. And he’s a good diagnostician, from what Sherlock can tell. Those are the stories he likes best, where the symptoms lead to an unexpected conclusion. Sherlock tries to guess, but John can surprise him. Most people would exaggerate, make themselves look good, but John is more often self-depreciating, laughing easily at his own blunders.

He tells a story about a woman who came into the clinic for a pelvic exam. Unexplained post-menopausal bleeding in a middle aged, unmarried music teacher. When he looked under the drape, preparing to insert the speculum into her vagina, he had to stifle himself not to burst into laughter. “She had a sticker on her— well, right where I was going to put the speculum. When she’d given her urine sample, there wasn’t any Kleenex, so she had to find something in her purse to wipe herself. She apparently had a sheet of stickers for her students in the bottom of her purse, and one got stuck to the tissue she used— it said _Good Job!_ ”

Sherlock laughs so hard he snorts.

“Glad you see the humour in it,” John says, wiping his eyes. “My wife didn’t think it was so funny. Said I was insensitive.” He falls silent and his smile fades.

“It’s all right.” Sherlock lays his head on John’s chest. “You don’t have to pretend she doesn’t exist.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?” John asks suddenly. They've already covered the marriage question and the promiscuity issue, but up until now John hasn't asked much about his life in London.

“I do,” he says. Every part of him rebels at answering, but at this point, it feels right to be honest. _Boyfriend_ isn’t the word he would choose, but it will suffice.

“Serious?”

He considers what he and Victor are to one another. “We've known one another for a long time.”

“Friends with benefits?”

“Perhaps. We share a flat, but lead different lives. It's nice, having someone.” He feels the word _but_ hanging there, waiting to be said. _Nice, but—_ He isn't sure what would follow that word. Victor is a habit, a familiar presence that occasionally annoys. He's not particularly dependable or supportive or even interesting. They were close ten years ago, went different ways for a while, met a few years ago, and now stay together mainly because neither of them has another plan.

“Does he know about this? About us?”

He is fairly sure Victor sleeps with other people, male and female. He can't explain why, but it doesn't bother him. At least he doesn't argue when Sherlock insists on condoms. That alone says volumes about their relationship.

“I haven't said anything. Nor will I. We're not like that.”

John is silent for a while. He strokes Sherlock’s head idly, running his fingers through the curls. “Do you love him?” he finally asks.

“No,” he says. He’s surprised at how quickly the answer comes. It isn’t something he’s thought about. For years, Victor has just been _there,_ on the edge of Sherlock’s life.

“Have you ever been in love?”

If he’s honest with himself, there isn’t anyone he’s loved, not in the way people mean when they say _I love you._ Maybe once, but he was young then and didn’t understand the consequences. Love isn’t something you simply _have_ , something you carry around inside you, like a fascination with bees or a fear of confined places. It isn’t something that just happens to you. It’s something you give to someone. And if you give those words to someone, they might not give them back to you. 

“No, I haven’t.”

“I thought I was in love,” John says. After a couple of beats, he adds, “I have a kid.”

Sherlock nods. “None of my business.”

“She's six. I can't leave.”

“It’s fine. Your decision. Divorces can be amicable—”

“Her mother… my wife would never grant shared custody.”

He sighs. This is why he hates sharing personal information. Sentiment always loses, ruins lives. Not worth it. “John, I don't mean to sound tedious or uncaring, but your decisions are your own. I am not interested in anything more than this.” He gestures vaguely: John, the bed, himself.

“I know,” John says hastily. “I just wanted to say… I'm not the kind of person who… I don't…” He falls silent. Sherlock can feel his frustration. John is cheating on a woman he doesn’t love and he worries how that will affect his child.

“It's all right, John.”

“It isn’t all right. She’s six years old, just started school last fall. I want to be a good father. I want her to have parents who love each other so she will know what it’s supposed to be like. I want her to learn that, but I can’t teach her because I don’t—” His chest begins to shake.

Sherlock rolls back, pulling John into his arms. Maybe this is the wrong thing to do, he thinks. How is he supposed to know? He hates it when people cry. He’s terrible at whatever people are supposed to do at times like this— say meaningless things in a comforting voice. He holds John and doesn’t know what to say. He could tell him that divorce is a good idea, that his daughter will still know he loves her. He could tell him to stay with his wife, get counselling and try to fix things. He could tell him that his wife is probably cheating on him, too, and he should get in the car and drive away with his child one night when she doesn’t come home. He should move to a foreign country, change his name, and start a new life—

“I’m sorry,” he says. It’s not his fault that John’s marriage is awful, but he hates that John feels bad about this. He’s sorry that John got married and is unhappy. He’s sorry that John will most likely have a messy divorce that leaves bitter feelings behind. But children are sturdy things, he knows. From an early age, he was aware that his own parents didn’t love one another, and it never bothered him. Sex and marriage really don’t have much to do with one another, he’s always thought. Expecting life-long fidelity from another person just because you produced a child together is unrealistic.

When he says, _I’m sorry,_ he means he’s sorry that he doesn’t have an answer.

John gives a watery laugh. “Didn’t mean to do that. Christ. You didn’t come here to listen to me sob about my marriage. I’m an idiot.”

“Come for the sex, stay for the angst,” he says. “I’m here to listen to anything you want to say, John.”

John props himself up on his elbow, looks into Sherlock’s face. “You really mean that, don’t you?”

“Of course. You’re my—” He can’t think of how to end this sentence, but now the first words are out and he can’t retract them. _Friend? Comrade? Soulmate? Fuck Buddy?_ “You’re my… Watson.”

Fortunately, John laughs. “Glad I can fill that hole in your life.” Sherlock can feel him relax as he leans down and kisses him, whispers in his ear, “I’d like to fill another hole, if you’re interested.”

 

John wakes up, finds himself alone in the bed. He sits up and gropes for his phone, finds the lamp and switches it on. Sherlock’s side of the bed is rumpled, the sheets thrown back.

He’s missed a call from his wife, he sees. It’s 02:09 here in Amsterdam, which means she’s not yet in bed. Hoping it’s not an emergency, he presses _call._ “Mary,” he says when she finally answers. “Is everything all right?”

“Are _you_ all right?” she asks.

He can’t read her tone. “Fine. What’s wrong?”

“You always call when you arrive somewhere. This time you didn’t. I looked up your flight and saw it’d landed.”

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “I just, you know— getting a cab and everything. I was tired and forgot. Jet lag.” 

“Rosie’s been waiting to say goodnight to you.”

“Sure. Put her on.”

He hears a card in the lock and the door swings open. Sherlock is back, smelling of cigarettes.

“Hi, Daddy,” Rosie says. “I just had my bath.”

“Hi sweetheart,” he says.

Sherlock looks at him, frowns uncertainly.

Rosie is talking, telling him about the birthday party she went to. “Chelsea got new ice skates and her mom took us to the skating rink. And I didn’t fall down once. Daddy, when you come home can we go ice skating?”

“I’d love to, Rosie.” He nods at Sherlock. _It’s all right. You don’t have to leave._

“I miss you, Daddy,” she says.

“I miss you, too, bug. Can I get a kiss?”

She makes a wet, smacking sound into the phone. “You kiss me now.”

“Mwah,” he says. “Love you, bug. Mind your mom.”

“She wants to talk to you.”

He hears the phone being dropped, then Mary speaking to Rosie. “Get in bed. I’ll be there in a minute to hear your prayers.” She speaks into the receiver. “John.”

“I’m here.”

“I was worried when you didn’t call. Is everything all right there?”

He can hear what she’s not saying. She suspects he’s not alone. She can hear something in his voice that is betraying him.

“Everything is fine. Look, I’m beat. Can I call you tomorrow?”

She sighs. “It’s fine. We’ll see you when you get back.”

“Okay,” he says. Sherlock has ducked into the bathroom. “Love you.”

He hangs up and hears the water running, sounds of teeth being brushed.

This is not what he intended to be, a father who talks to his six-year-old daughter while sitting naked on the bed where he fucked a man he barely knows, a husband who tells his wife he loves her while his lover is in the bathroom brushing his teeth so his breath won’t smell like an ashtray while they’re kissing.

The bathroom door opens. Sherlock looks at him tentatively.

“It’s all right. I forgot to let them know I’d arrived.”

He nods, climbs into the bed. “I was on the phone, had to smoke a bit so I wouldn’t lose my temper,” he says.

“Boyfriend?” he asks. Because they may as well just acknowledge what they are, lay it all out there. Both of them, cheating bastards.

“My brother.” Sherlock looks annoyed.

“Bad news?”

“He has a case for me.”

“You have to leave?” He tries to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

“No.” But Sherlock’s expression is uneasy, and it feels to John as if the real world is leaking into what was a pleasant fantasy.

He nods. “Good. I’m glad.”

Sherlock budges closer to him, but doesn’t touch. “Everything all right at home?”

“Yeah, fine.” He huffs a small laugh. “I feel like a right bastard.”

“You regret this.” Sherlock gestures between them.

“No. Not regret. This is… it’s good.”

Sherlock gives him a thin smile. “If it makes you uncomfortable, you have a choice. Don’t feel obligated to me. Walk away if you need to.”

“I want…” He sighs. “To be honest, I don’t know what I want.”

“Then perhaps we should discontinue seeing one another. I sense that for both of us, it’s becoming problematic. My work will always come first, and your family is most important to you. This has been a nice diversion, but maybe we’ve taken it too far.”

“Maybe,” John says. This was out of nowhere, not the response he expected. He feels as if a lead weight has sunk in his gut. “I don’t know.”

Sherlock runs his hands down John’s belly. “While you debate with yourself, could we get back to the business that brought us here?”

John gives a full-body shiver. “Sherlock,” he whispers, and pulls his lover into an embrace.

 

By morning, Sherlock has received a second call from Mycroft, insisting that he come home (knowing full well where Sherlock is and what he’s doing). John is unhappy, undecided, and everything has gone to shit. Staying in this hotel for another minute will be unbearable. Offering his brother as an excuse, he tells John he has to leave.

As he’s flying home, he mourns a bit. Mycroft may have been right, he concedes. Sentiment is a defect, a detriment, a disaster. It might have been a perfect affair, no sentiment on either side, but now it has changed. He has allowed what he feels for John (a dangerous emotion which shall not be named) to distract him from the Work. And he cannot afford that, not when he’s looked into the eyes of Moriarty, seen intention there. Whatever that turns out to be, it will not be pleasant. Sherlock cannot lose his focus now. People will die if he does. Moriarty takes no prisoners.

But he grieves, thinking of John. He will miss the sex, but what he is imagining now are those bottomless blue eyes, they way they looked at him. The way they crinkle at the corners, one eyebrow raised, when he is flirting. The way he scrunches them closed when he laughs hard. The little line that forms between them when he’s confused or uncertain. The way they open wide when Sherlock says something _amazing._

What he feels is chemical. In his brain, neurones are firing, making him feel intimacy where there is only hesitancy, affection where there is only attraction. Love is an illusion, a defect of perception found on the losing side.

 

John sits in the hotel room, wondering what just happened. _A nice diversion?_ It makes it sound as if both of them are bored, or too lazy to look around for a lover closer to home. If he just wanted sex, he could have an affair closer to home. But he doesn’t want that now. And he can’t feel guilty about it. Well, maybe a bit. He was young when they married, and Mary had that way about her, making him think he wanted what she wanted, and then she was pregnant, and it felt as if this should be everything he’d ever wanted. The fact that it wasn’t enough is the source of his guilt.

His parents never married, had an open relationship. His mother had explained it this way: _we didn't want to stay together without love_. The error, she told him, was that she hadn’t anticipated that love would ever end, that she had mistaken sex for love. He saw how it hurt her when his dad slept with other women. He'd sworn that he wouldn't do that. And now he sees himself falling into the same pattern.

Having seen how free love worked out, he doesn’t want that. Having tried commitment, he sees that a marriage license isn't enough.

He was being honest when he said that he doesn’t know what he wants, but he now understands one thing. He is not in love with his wife, and hasn’t been for several years. And he might, possibly, be a tiny bit in love with Sherlock.

And Sherlock has left, practically pushing him back into her arms.

He doesn’t regret this thing. He regrets what he is planning to do, breaking up the fantasy family he’s tried to give his daughter. But his regret isn’t enough to try fixing it.

Sherlock regrets it. _Perhaps we should discontinue seeing one another. The Work,_ he'd said. John isn't even sure what that means. Loving your work and loving a person don’t have to be exclusive. But Sherlock’s mind doesn’t work like most brains.

Something happened while he was on the phone, he decides. Sherlock blamed his brother for his sudden departure, but perhaps it’s really the boyfriend. Maybe Sherlock has decided, _this isn’t worth it._ One phone call and he has realised his true priorities.

Goodbye sex. That’s what the last bit was.

He begins pulling his clothes on, throwing things into his suitcase. His flight isn’t until tomorrow, but he suddenly wants to be anywhere else but in this hotel room. Maybe he can get an earlier flight, surprise Mary. She might even believe he missed her. That will give him time to figure this out.

He will give Sherlock time as well, he decides.


	4. Wrong

2011 December

Sherlock hears his phone chime, picks it up to see who’s bothering him. He half expects it to be Irene, but hopes that whatever _that_ was is finally over. His second guess is Mycroft, though he rarely texts. Lestrade is the default.

— I was wrong.

His gut drops to his feet. It’s been almost a year, and John Watson is texting him.

— _John.SH_

— Why do you always sign your texts? You never said.

— _Habit.SH_

He feels his heart in his throat. It isn’t a good time, not with all that’s happening. But (sensible precautions be damned), he’s missed John.

_— It’s been a while. Are you all right?SH_

— No.

— _What’s wrong?SH_

— I was wrong. About us. About you. I miss you.

This isn’t the moment to be testing sentiment, he tells himself. He needs his focus fully on Moriarty’s game. His career is in question, his reputation in tatters. But, _dear god_ , he needs someone who will believe in him, who will tell him he’s amazing. He craves John’s confidence, his affection.

But John would be a liability now. If Moriarty knew, he would hold a gun to his head, see what Sherlock would do about that. He would use John as a token, a game piece on a board where at least one contestant must die.

— _Your wife— still together? SH_

It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. Part of him had been hoping that they would reconcile. It would be safer for John, better for him. Whatever John Watson’s wife has decided or done, Sherlock can’t get involved in his crisis. But another part of him wants to know: _What were you wrong about? Was it me— or her?_ He doesn’t ask this. The answer will only muddle his already overloaded mind.

A long pause, and John finally responds.

— Not good. We might get divorced.

_— I’m sorry. Don’t know what to say. SH_

— It’s okay. Not your fault.

_— Have you separated? SH_

— Haven’t had that conversation. Yet.

He deduces: as usual, John is not communicating. He doesn’t know John’s wife, not even her name, but he imagines two people awkwardly stepping around one another, not saying what needs to be said. He imagines John, afraid to close that door because of his child.

_— This must be painful for you. SH_

— Yeah. But I think it has to happen.

He steels himself. _Don’t get involved. Sentiment = Losing_. Mycroft has told him this for years, and right now, he wants more than anything to believe it, to push this away, and just be a machine. He doesn’t want to feel this ache in his heart, to see possibilities where none can safely exist.

— _How can I help? SH_

Not what he meant to say, but John always does that to him, tears down his careful facade and finds his beating heart. He’s done his best to keep him safe, to make sure Moriarty doesn’t know about him, but he fears he will have to bring Mycroft in now, just to be sure. The further this game progresses, the more he sees how he has underestimated the Irishman. Moriarty truly lacks a heart, and will do everything possible to find Sherlock’s— and burn it.

— I want to see you. After Christmas? I might come to London if you can’t get away.

_—Too soon. You need time to process. And I’m involved in a case that may not be resolved by then. SH_

— When? I’ll come whenever you say.

He thinks, quickly. Where can they meet? When? He doesn’t want John to feel put-off. And he can’t let him come to London, not now. But the undefined thing between them won’t let him hurt this man, even though he can’t help him.

— _Let’s give it time. I’m planning a trip to Switzerland early in May. Would that work? SH_

— I’d like to see you sooner, but if that’s the first you can get away, I’ll be there. Send details.

_— Will do.  SH_

 

Mostly because John is an abject coward who doesn’t have the stones to talk to his wife about their marriage, Christmas goes smoothly. Rosie is old enough and coordinated enough to do fun things— sledding, skating, making biscuits. He lets her help him bring up the boxes of Christmas decorations from the basement and string fairy lights on the bushes.

She picks out the ugliest tree on the lot. Mary objects, but Rosie insists. “It’s a Charlie Brown tree,” she says. “If we love it, it’ll be beautiful.” Even Mary can’t withstand that sweet logic. They hang ornaments on the branches and wind sparkly garland around it, and it is beautiful.

At school, she has made presents for her parents (pencil holders, aka soup tins wound with bright yarn), wrapped them in crayon-decorated paper, and now goes around the house singing _Hark, the Herald Angels Sing_. In the evenings, they sit together and watch the cartoon specials.

They stay busy. The school has a Winter Concert, friends invite them to open houses, and John’s clinic has a party at a local restaurant. Since Mary worked there until John came home just over three years ago, she knows most of the staff and can easily make conversation. Not that she is ever shy or clingy. If anyone is going to sit in a dark corner with a drink, it’s John.

Mike Stamford joins him for a pre-dinner scotch. “How’s the little one?” he asks.

“Not so little anymore,” John replies. It feels like a scripted conversation, one he can participate in with half a brain. The other half of his brain is thinking about Sherlock. It’s a bit worrying, actually, that he has put off their _thing_ until May. He’s aware that his work is often dangerous, and that his brother might conscript him into cases that involve more than garden variety murders. He hates to think about what Sherlock might be doing.

Mike nudges him. “You having a second?”

For a moment he looks at his drink, wondering if that’s what Mike means. Then he notices the way he’s looking at Mary. And he sees what Mike sees.

“Hoping for a boy this time?”

He feels the door of his prison closing. They’ve had sex less often over the last year, nothing like it was before, but a pregnancy is possible. He tries to remember the last time they were intimate. Maybe two months ago. It’s a terrible thing to admit, that he’s been slowly backing away from this marriage, waiting until his daughter is old enough that the final cut won’t be so wrenching, so that he can explain it to her in a way she won’t feel rejected. He’s not sure he can stick around much longer, even if there’s another child to worry about.

His next thought is even more alarming. _What if it’s not his?_ He’s not sure what makes him feel that this is possible, but something clicks in his brain— maybe her tone of voice when she asks, _how was your day?_ Or the look on her face when she asks, _what time will you be home?_ The trips to her cousin in Montreal, the one she never mentions except to say _I’m visiting Lila._

Maybe it’s because he’s cheating on her that he suddenly realises that he’s not the only one waiting things out until the right moment arrives. Mary is a perceptive woman. She knows that something is off with him, and probably has a good idea what it is. She has probably already planned her exit. One word out of his mouth could trigger an entire avalanche of consequences.

His daughter, he suddenly realises, will be part of Mary’s plan. She will have no intention of letting John have her. If she suspects that he’s been seeing a man, it will be easy. In his mind rise up pictures of missing children he’s seen, and he knows that most of them were abducted by parents who wanted to ensure their own custody. If that happens, he will never see Rosie again. His eyes begin to tear up.

He sniffs. “Yeah,” he tells Stamford. “A boy would be nice.”

He sees her talking to Sarah Sawyer, John’s boss. They laugh easily together, girls complaining about men. He’s used to playing the role of idiot husband, accepts that his wife must gripe about him when he’s out of earshot. It’s just something women do.

But there is definitely something different about her, and he can't put his finger on it. It worries him. And he wonders what else he’s been missing in his preoccupation with his own affair. That’s what it is, an affair— even if he chooses not to name it. He has no claim on Sherlock; there is nothing he can expect from the man. They made no promises to one another.

 

That night, as he lies in bed next to his wife, he feels as if his eyes are open at last. This is no longer about hiding his own sins from Mary, or trying to decide when he should leave her. It’s about stopping her from taking his child away. There is a kind of ruthlessness about her; she would definitely take preemptive action rather than go through a custody trial. When he first met her, he loved how fiercely assertive she was, how she bullied him good-naturedly into doing what she wanted. He admired that quality, readily conceded that she was better at managing things, getting people in line, making her will known. She has trained John to be the husband she wanted.

He used to tell Stamford, _she’s the brain in the family. She runs the house like a major corporation._

Men talk about their wives like that, with a kind of grudging admiration, implying that they are liberated enough to let themselves be ruled by a woman. It’s a cliche, and old one, that men have used for generations. He wasn’t threatened by her assertiveness, he always thought. It didn’t bother him that she was a bit controlling. Now, however, he realises that he has been asleep at the switch, and that this _thing_ with Sherlock is just the tip of the giant iceberg his problems have become.

 

“What the fuck is this?” Victor is peering into the fridge, a look of disgust on his face.

“Your Christmas present,” Sherlock replies, remembering that he'd stowed the severed head there. His tone isn't as humorous as he'd intended. He doesn't care.

Victor slams the door, making bottles rattle. “I'm tired of this shit. Why can't you just be normal? I thought your little piece on the side might humanise you, but you're still a freak.”

“My little— what?” Sherlock looks up from his laptop and stares at Victor.

He smirks. “You're not the only one who can deduce things. Did the great detective really think I wouldn't notice? How long have we known one another, Sherlock? Ten, twelve years? The texting, the trips, the private little smiles. You've got a boyfriend.”

Sherlock’s brain stutters to a halt. _Is it that obvious?_ Because if even Victor has noticed, surely Moriarty is aware, and that means he must pull himself together and solve this _now._

Victor laughs. “I don't care. We've never been exclusive, you and I. But it's interesting. I never thought you wanted anything but an occasional blowjob. Whoever this bloke is— I assume it's a man— he must really be something.”

“Shut up, Victor.”

“He doesn't live in London, or you’d have booted me out by now. Oh,” he says, his eyes lighting up with sudden awareness. “He's married!”

Sherlock shuts his laptop with a snap and glares at his flatmate. “Leave it. Nothing that need concern you.”

“So, you like ’em straight-ish? Does his wife know?”

“This conversation is over.” He strides towards the door, grabs his coat. “I believe we have no more to say to one another.”

Victor shrugs. “Just so you know, I'll be moving out. Don’t worry, I'll send you my part of the month’s rent. You can reach me at Stacy’s. If you'd been paying attention at all, you might have noticed that I'm spending most nights there. Nothing much happening here, except you ignoring me.”

“Stacy.” He tries to remember who that person is. “The blonde?”

“Dark hair. Almost as pretty as you.” Victor drops into the chair Sherlock has vacated. “I'll be back for my things after the holidays.”

“No need. My brother’s minions will box them up and have them delivered.” He loops his scarf around his neck. “Victor, I want you to know that I don't bear you any ill will. Obviously we've been growing apart for some time.”

Victor looks like he’s trying to formulate a really cutting remark. After a moment, he shrugs. “Happy Christmas, Sherlock. I'll see you. Or not.”

He stands on the landing for a bit, hears the telly turn on. As a matter of principle, he has tried to ensure Victor will be safe, and he’s done that. They won’t miss each other, he knows. He worries more about Mrs Hudson, is glad she’ll be going to her sister’s for the holidays. Mycroft will pay the rent while he’s gone. Just a few months, he thinks, and he can come back.

 

For Christmas, there is turkey. To the extent that a seven year old can help, Rosie assists with whatever Mary allows her to do. They are in the kitchen, blond heads bent over a mixing bowl as Rosie adds the vanilla. Mary lets her hold the mixer, but keeps her hand on top. She’s a good mother, he admits, and is teaching Rosie things about womanhood that he doesn’t even understand. Rosie has always been a bit of a daddy’s girl, so it’s good that they do things together, he thinks. A divorce won’t be pain-free, but maybe it can leave Rosie with two loving parents.

While it may be obvious to Rosie that her mother is the one who decides things, she has always clearly preferred her father. Mary shrugs and gives a rueful smile when Daddy has to hear the story she wrote, come to parent’s night to meet her teacher, and sing to her at bedtime. And though Mommy is a nurse, it’s Daddy who has to apply antiseptic and plasters to her scrapes and scratches.

People comment on how much she looks like him. Though they are a blond, blue-eyed family, Rosie also has his square chin and dimples, his straight hair that Mary in vain tries to coax into curls. She has his darker blue eyes that turn almost grey-green in bright sunlight. She seems to have his temperament, too, rather easy going until she is pushed too far, then stubborn and taciturn. Those are the moments when Mary hands her over to John, saying, _do something with your daughter._

These days, she seems aware that something is not right between her parents. She is quieter, uncharacteristically reserved, and never argues or pits them against one another. John senses that she is afraid. He has planned to wait until after the holidays to talk about things, but now he decides perhaps he should postpone it until summer. He won’t spring the trap too soon, give Mary a reason to leave.

 

There is something he needs to know, and he is almost afraid to ask. One night when she is changing into her nightgown, he looks over at her and before he can stop himself, the words fall out of his mouth. “Are you pregnant?”

He knows immediately that it’s a mistake. It’s a question you never ask a woman, not even your wife. In a loving, healthy relationship, they would have held hands as she dipped the test strip, waiting breathlessly to see the result. The question implies all sorts of things— that he thinks she is keeping something from him, that he doesn’t want her to be pregnant, that he doesn’t trust her, that he’s just now noticing, that their marriage is dying, and (worst of all) that she is getting fat.

Her look says all of this and more. She is surprised, embarrassed, and (worst of all) angry.

“You’re the doctor,” she points out. “Do you think I’m pregnant?”

There is no answer to this question. If he says yes, he’s saying that he believes she’s avoided telling him because (insert a million reasons here). If he says no, he’s saying that she looks fat. Unforgivable, either way.

“I don’t know,” he finally says. There is no way to fix this, but he tries. “You don’t look fat. There’s just something different. I don’t know.”

She looks at him expressionlessly, probably adding up all the ways he’s an idiot.

“I’m not,” she says at last.

 

He makes a late-night run to the store for milk. That’s what he told her. In the parking lot, he sits in his car, motor running, listening to some Christmas oratorio performed by the Academy of Ancient Music. It seems like something Sherlock might listen to.

The relief he feels is immense. Leaving his pregnant wife would undoubtedly guarantee he would not get custody of Rosie.

But it says nothing good about him that he didn’t know what her answer would be. He has withdrawn too much, and missed things he should have seen. Though he’s spent the equivalent of just eight days with Sherlock over the past four years, his mind has been constantly with him, in a hotel room somewhere. He can’t afford to be absent from his life any longer. Whether Mary suspects John’s affair, or is having one of her own, he must watch her and figure out what she is planning.

And—oh God! —how he wishes he could talk to Sherlock now. Although he’s stayed firmly out of John’s personal affairs, he is preternaturally observant and, as an outsider, he might be objective enough not to be swayed by sentiment. He wonders whether he should contact him now. He’s not sure he can wait until May.

Their last visit had ended on an uncertain note. But when they texted before Christmas, he’d been open to seeing John again. The conversation with Mary has been postponed until he returns from Switzerland in May. By then, he feels sure that he will have a plan.

 _Let’s give it time_ , Sherlock said. It now occurs to John that it was probably not a good idea to text Sherlock, to tell him he was thinking of divorce. It implies that he expects something.

What does he really know about Sherlock Holmes? A few conversations, a raft of text messages, and sex. That is all he has to go on.

Sherlock said, _I’m not interested in anything more than this._

But then he said, _I’m here to listen to anything you want to say._

 _You’re my Watson_.

And he said, _My work will always come first._

Sherlock is always thinking, but John has no idea what all goes on in that brilliant mind. He is intelligent, analytical. He is also tender, considerate, and passionate. He is impulsive, and he’s calculating. And he has entanglements as well— the work, the brother, the boyfriend.

One of those things has changed. The boyfriend was casual, he said. A long-standing relationship. Unlikely that it would suddenly turn serious. Maybe they are breaking up.

The brother was an annoyance, it seemed, but brothers can’t be gotten rid of easily. They are tolerated.

He never talked much about his work. He knew Sherlock was a detective. He’d told John that when they first met, even told him about the case that brought him to Frankfurt. And John knew that his brother, a somebody in the government, gave him work assignments at times. He’d mentioned a case that he was working on, one he couldn’t talk about. Maybe that was it, a difficult case that required him to eliminate distractions.

He’s not sure how to describe it, but with all the other things changing around them, they have changed as well. It was stupid for him to think that they could keep _this thing_ untouched by their lives, like a box of Christmas decorations, dragged out of the basement once a year, then packed away and forgotten after the holidays.

He remembers the man he met in Germany and followed up to a hotel room without any hesitation. That night was about sex, but the nights since then have been much more.

He would still follow that man, he decides.

But for Sherlock, career will always come first. When he says the Work, John can hear that it is capitalised. Nothing competes with the Work. The nights he spends in a hotel room with John are just a diversion.

And John sees it now. Sherlock is letting him down gently. When and if they meet in May, Sherlock will break it off. He will hope that John breaks it off first, goes back to his wife and child and realises that having an annual affair with a man he barely knows is not good.

The oratorio ends. He drives home in silence. When he pulls into the driveway, he realises that he never bought the milk.

 

2012 January

After the holidays, he thinks about sending Sherlock a birthday text.

He holds his phone in his hands, thumbs hovering over the keys, wondering if he should text. He’s debated deleting his old texts from Sherlock, but can’t bring himself to do that. Sometimes he re-reads their texted conversations. The possibility that Mary might somehow open his phone and see what he’s been up to is remote, but he still changes his password religiously, every week.

He types: _Happy Birthday._

His courage fails; he does not hit _send_.

He lets the day go by without a message.

 

In London, Sherlock keeps his mobile in his pocket, waiting for a text. When it doesn’t arrive, he is both disappointed ( _John forgot_ ) and relieved ( _John will be all right_ ).

 

Mid-January is the dreariest time of year in Toronto. There are several inches of snow on the ground, making driving a chore. He has to bundle up in his parka, wear a hat and gloves every time he goes out, just in case his car decides to break down. The walkway needs shovelling and salt, and Mary frets that her bushes are weighed down by the snow. He often wears Sherlock’s gift, the socks, but is afraid Mary will be suspicious, so he orders several more pairs of wool socks in different colours.

“Will you be doing your annual thing?” she asks him one night.

He turns, horrified, quickly schooling his expression into puzzlement. “What _thing_?” he asks.

She rolls her eyes. “You always go somewhere in January. A conference or something.”

“No, not this year,” he replies.

 

Mrs Hudson has brought Sherlock tea and biscuits. Not unprecedented, but unusual. “You were right to throw him out, Sherlock,” she says. “I never liked Victor Trevor.”

He looks up from the newspaper he's reading, whose headline reads _Sherlock: The Shocking Truth_. “What's happened? Has he been back?”

In response, she turns on the television to the news channel. Victor Trevor with a microphone in his face, being interviewed by Kitty Riley.

“Yes, a long time,” he’s saying. “We've been flatmates off and on since uni days.”

Kitty nods. “And did you ever suspect he was faking his cases?”

Victor gives a huff of surprised laughter. “Never. I was astounded. You could have knocked me over with a feather when I heard.”

“But you know him,” she says. “Better than anyone, I should think.”

Victor shakes his head, abashed. “Yeah, I do. He's brilliant. But I think his vanity has become his Achilles heel.”

“Vanity!?” Sherlock yells at the telly. Victor has become a much better actor than he expected.

“He needs to be the smartest person in the room. It’s almost an addiction with him.”

“Addiction!?” Sherlock looks for something to throw.

Kitty smiles salaciously. “Can we expect the inside story from you?”

Victor returns the smile, adds a lewd wink. “I'm not the sort to kiss and tell, Kitty.”

 

It’s evening in Toronto and they are watching the BBC news. In London, it’s five hours later, old news. John barely watches, his mind pointlessly running over things he’s thought about so often, they have worn a rut in his mind. A year ago he was preparing to go to Amsterdam, feeling optimistic. Their texts had been light, fond. The sex was good, as always. But then it had changed.

Maybe it was when he asked about the boyfriend. _Have you ever been in love?_ Maybe it was when he told him about his daughter. He’d felt it turn when Mary called, but maybe it had already started. That late call was just what sealed it. He needed to keep his lives separate, like strangers who work in the same building, but different shifts, so they never meet. Instead, he had allowed them into the same hotel room. A mistake, so very wrong.

“Idiot.” Mary is looking at the television, frowning. “Attention-seeking narcissist.”

He looks up and is shocked to see a face he knows.

 _Suicide of Fake Genius_ is the caption. He watches, over and over, as Sherlock Holmes plunges from the roof of St Bartholomew’s Hospital.

He cannot speak.

Mary has gone back to her needlepoint. She does not look at him.

The news moves on to another story. There are protests in Romania. The UN is discussing Syria. The Middle East is, as always, a powder keg.

He gets up, stumbles into the bathroom, where he wretches until he has nothing left in his stomach.

“Are you all right?” she calls through the door.

“Flu, I think,” he manages.

 

In London, Sherlock is awed into silence by the irrevocability of what he’s done. In his brother’s office, he sits in a chair drinking a glass of obscenely expensive scotch, letting it all sink in. He is not dead, but his life can never return to what it was.

“Are you sure about this?” Mycroft asks.

Sherlock nods. “It’s the only way. It leaves me free to take apart his network. Mrs Hudson and Lestrade will be safe.”

“And Victor?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “He doesn’t care. He’ll be safe.”

“What about—”

“I haven’t told him.”

Mycroft sighs. “You’ll leave tonight, then. How long do you anticipate being… gone?” He might have said _dead,_ but it already feels like a wake. Hence, the whisky.

“A year, perhaps. Not much longer, I hope.” He looks into his brother’s eyes. “Would you just…”

Mycroft pours another inch in his glass. “I will keep a weather eye on them. All of them.”

 

There is no one to talk to, no one to tell. John has lost a friend, a lover, a person he didn’t realise was part of his heart. He feels bereft, but it’s not something he can talk about. For four days, he pretends to be sick, lying in bed, getting up only to get rid of fluid— either piss or vomit. Mary brings him broth and ginger ale and saltines, and he pretends to sleep while in his mind Sherlock falls and falls and falls.

On the fifth day, he gets out of bed. His hands shake and he feels dizzy. But there is no alternative. His marriage must be saved now. He can’t lose his daughter.

He returns to work, does extra shifts to repay the people who covered for him, has lunch with Mike and talks about hockey.

In the evenings, he reads _The Hobbit_ to his daughter, doing the voices and making up melodies for the songs. Her giggles help him remember why he’s still here.

Once she’s in bed, he reads: James Patterson, John le Carré, Ken Follett, Tom Clancy. It doesn’t keep his mind occupied, but it makes conversation unlikely.

He sleeps in the bed with his wife, does not touch her. He wears socks to bed. She doesn’t ask.

 

The weather gets warmer, and John puts away his wooly socks. Mary is planning their garden, looking at seed catalogues and magazines with pictures of landscaped designs. She will make him help, keep his weekends busy digging holes, aerating the soil with a tiller, moving rocks around because she’s decided to try something new. He will make trips to the nursery, setting the flats of flowers in the boot of his Toyota, and she will complain that he needs to buy a truck.

He tells himself it will be all right, he'll just stay busy and not think about Sherlock. He doesn’t really believe it’s possible, but he can try.

 

2012 May

Sherlock is dead, but he will go to Switzerland as planned. He will hike and drink German wine and somehow get his head straight. He will say goodbye.

Sherlock had made a reservation for them, paid for the room, and sent him the details. He calls, confirms that the reservation is still being held. He tells them he plans to be there.

He isn't sure how he will explain this to his wife.

He must say goodbye, and he doesn’t know how else to do it. Mary thinks he’s having a nervous breakdown. He tells her he’s attending a retreat for ex-soldiers with PTSD. Out loud, she wonders why he has to cross the Atlantic to do this, when there are many ex-servicemen in Toronto, a few of whom must suffer from PTSD. But she doesn't argue with him.

Heavy-hearted, he packs his bag. He remembers the last time he did this, when he still had Sherlock, and he wonders if he will ever get over this.

 

It’s an almost-spring day, cold, damp, but sunny. On a hiking path over the famous Reichenbach falls, he stands and talks to Sherlock.

“Maybe it wasn't love,” he tells him, “but it was something like it.”

The falls thunder, a deep reverberation that shudders through his chest.

“I was so alone, and I owe you so much.”

In the crashing of water, he strains to hear a reply.

“Don’t be dead,” he whispers. “Please.”

The spray dampens his face, hiding the tears.


	5. Punishment

2012 October

The death of Sherlock Holmes is old news surprisingly soon after the story breaks. The remaining months of 2012 have little to add to the news that broke in January.

John watches, waits for more. Though he’s heard the explanation, that Sherlock was devastated when his reputation was ruined, he knew the man well enough to realise that rationale is bullshit. It angers him that people lap up what the press is feeding them. Sherlock would not have done that. He was a reasonable man, not given to despair. There has to be something more, something that isn’t coming out.

He thinks about the brother. All he knows is that he’s a _somebody_ in the British government and gives Sherlock cases, presumably situations that don’t warrant the involvement of the intelligence services. But he wonders what the shadowy government brother might know about his brother’s suicide. Why didn’t he stop Sherlock? Did he fail to see what was happening? He searches news sites, obsessing over details of the event. All are spouting the same story: Sherlock, humiliated and despondent, killed himself because he’d been exposed.

But Sherlock had no need to fake anything. John has had enough conversations with the man to recognise a transcendent intellect. He knew everything about John Watson after eight minutes of karaoke and a seven minute conversation. He didn’t need to pay people to pretend he’d solved their crimes. 

He searches the internet, finds _The Science of Deduction_ , Sherlock’s website. Not really for laymen, he decides, but still interesting. It shows him a side of the man he hadn't seen. Sherlock’s mind absorbed detail, catalogued it, and knew how to access whatever bits he needed. He was truly brilliant, an intelligence seen once or twice in a generation. And that makes it more than John's private tragedy. People will die, murderers won't be caught, because Sherlock Holmes is gone.

The press has it wrong; he couldn’t have killed himself. That defies reason. Someone must have arranged this.

 

October the seventeenth is Rosie’s eighth birthday. She asks for a skateboard (with padding, of course; she’s a realistic girl). Mary says no. She asks to have her ears pierced. Mary says no.

John buys her a puppy, a tiny terrier mix that she names Bilbo.

Mary doesn’t speak to him until it’s nearly Christmas.

 

2012 November

Somewhere in the former Soviet Union, Sherlock’s phone rings, and he once again curses Mycroft, whose reach is both untraceable and unavoidable.

“What?” he says.

“Just checking in.”

“I’m fine.” He hesitates because he wants to know, but doesn’t like to ask.

“Victor has married,” his brother informs him. “He will not be writing the exposé.”

This is not as surprising as it ought to be. “You persuaded him, I assume.”

“He is easily swayed by money. Threats of a specific nature have also been effective.” Mycroft is smiling smugly. Sherlock can almost feel the smugness oozing through the satellite connection. “His bride is the youngest daughter of Lord Benson-Ross. I’m quite certain they would not approve of any exposés involving you and their new son-in-law. They will ensure that certain information remains confidential.”

“Is Mrs Hudson all right?” He hates to think of her having to leave Baker Street because of him. England would fall if that happened. “Are you still paying for my flat?”

“No,” he says. “I bought the building instead. She still lives there. I don’t make her pay rent, of course, but have provided some strategic investment advice. She’s purchased a particular stock that is likely to go through the roof at any moment. She misses you, but not the explosions.”

He nods.“And Lestrade?”

“I’m afraid Scotland Yard has seen fit to demote him because of his association with you. I’m planning to have a word with the Superintendent about it, but don’t want Mr Lestrade to suspect I’ve been involved. He’s a proud man who will refuse help if it’s offered.”

He feels a bit bad about Lestrade, who trusted him. He supposes that will have to be smoothed over when he returns. “If you’re going to be meddling anyway, perhaps you could just clear my name,” Sherlock says.

“That is happening, slowly,” says his brother. “You do realise, however, that nothing on the Internet is ever really gone? Those stories will remain even after your reputation is cleared, and they will be dredged up at every chance.”

“I don’t care about that. What about John?”

“The same. You shouldn’t have risked Switzerland, you know. The reservation was in your name, and anyone who was looking could have spotted you.”

“He didn’t.”

“Because he wasn’t looking for you. People rarely look for what they believe no longer exists. Why did you go?”

“I just… had to see him. I needed to know that he’s all right.”

“Hm. You should have let me arrange it.” Even without visual, he can tell Mycroft is giving him a disapproving look. “A more interesting question, perhaps, is _why did he go?_ Clearly, you expected him to be there. Is there something you’re not telling me about this little _dalliance_ you’ve been having?”

He rolls his eyes, which Mycroft can’t see, and sighs, which he can hear. “Only you could make it sound so Victorian. It was sex, that’s all.”

“Over a period of four years. It was almost beginning to sound like a cliche-ridden romantic comedy. _Same Time, Next Year._ Ghastly.”

“You said he’s fine, so it’s over. I will not contact him again.”

“If you return, some explanation may be required.”

He notes, but does not comment on, Mycroft’s use of the word _if._ He knows that what lies ahead will be dangerous, but can’t think about that. As long as John is safe, he will do what he has to do. “He’s still with his wife, isn’t he?”

“Yes. No divorce proceedings, still occupying the same house.”

“Good. _When_ I return, I’ll deal with explanations. Goodbye, Mycroft.”

He sits staring at the phone for a long time, thinking about what it means that John hasn’t moved out. The John he observed six months ago at Reichenbach looked ill and unhappy. He didn’t look like a man who had reconciled with his wife and was getting on with things. He looked the way Sherlock felt— empty, just plugging on because the alternative could not be contemplated.

 

2013 January

The anniversary of Sherlock’s death arrives in January, a couple weeks before the anniversary of their first meeting. John watches the news, thinking that some journalist will dredge it up and remind the world that it happened. He is almost relieved that nothing is said. He's not sure he could relive that grief and act like a normal human around his wife. But it hurts that he's the only one who still grieves. Sherlock Holmes has already been forgotten.

 

“We're having dinner with the Taylors tonight,” Mary tells him one morning.

It's not just any morning. It's January 29, the day he's always spent with Sherlock, except for last year. Can she have noticed? Is this dinner date a deliberate stab? No, he must be imagining it.

But he's unhappy. He'd planned to make an excuse and take the car out, maybe just drive around for an hour. Anywhere to get out of the house. He’d rather bash his head against a wall than spend an evening socialising with people he doesn’t know, doesn’t care about. He used to be a sociable person, able to converse with anyone, but these days it just wears him out.

Mary, on the other hand, will be in her element. She loves entertaining, can carry on endlessly about nonsense with anyone who will listen. It's truly oppressive these days. After weeks of silence, she now chatters at him relentlessly, hums along to music, watches talk shows and reality television, constantly commenting. He craves silence. It’s as if she realises, and is punishing him. This dinner, too, is punishment, he suspects.

She's got a sitter for Rosie, so they kiss her goodnight before leaving. Mary tells Cara, the girl, that they'll be home at about eleven. When he thinks about talking until eleven o’clock, he is exhausted.

The restaurant is noisy. They sit at a table in the middle of the floor, surrounded by people talking loudly. When the waiter takes their drink order, they decide to share a bottle of Shiraz. John asks for scotch.

The Taylors are people Mary knows. Diane is a nurse like Mary, and Don does something with computers. They have two children about Rosie's age, attending the same school. While they wait for the waiter to return with their drinks, they discuss the menu. Mary asks too many questions about each entree. She's on some kind of diet, he thinks, which might explain why there hasn't been bread at home for weeks. Or ice cream.

He finds it hard to talk with these normal people, a couple whose life seems to have turned out as expected. While Mary and Diane talk about their children, Don supplies him with all sorts of useless information about databases and networks and things John barely understands. _Network security_ , he says, leaning towards John. _It’s something everyone ought to be thinking about_. Instead, John thinks of Sherlock and his Mind Palace, deleting unnecessary information to make room for the important things. While Don talks, John is deleting this conversation, cataloguing every bit of information he can remember about Sherlock.

“I’m rubbish at computers,” he tells Don. He laughs as he says this, but Don looks incredulous, almost offended, as if John has just said he doesn't understand hockey.

 

In a shabby hotel in Belarus, Sherlock Holmes marks the occasion with a cheap bottle of vodka. If he had his old phone, the one that’s currently locked in Mycroft’s safe, he’d be scrolling through all their old text messages.

On that phone, there is just one picture of John Watson, taken unawares, the last time he saw him. John had fallen asleep watching the telly in the bed, the top half of his body naked, the lower half covered with the blanket. Sherlock, coming back from the loo, took his mobile and snapped a quick picture of him. It’s a terrible picture, his head lolling back, his mouth partly open. His military abs have softened a bit, but the scar on his shoulder is almost as horrific as it was when he first saw it. He treasures this candid photo, treasures this John, so weathered, but almost innocent-looking. Taking pictures was not something they did, so he never told John. Even then, he knew there would not be another opportunity.

In his Mind Palace, he slowly scrolls through all those texts, smiling as he remembers those three dots appearing, meaning that John was typing a response. It used to make his pulse quicken to see those dots, knowing that in different time zones, on opposite sides of the ocean, they were thinking of each other, flirting and laughing and wanting the same thing.

He wonders if he should delete these memories. _Wait,_ he says. _Soon I’ll be back_.

 

2013 March

Mary’s mobile buzzes from time to time. Usually it’s Diane or Kate or some other woman whose name he’s heard her say, but now has deleted. Sometimes, when it buzzes, she takes her call into the bedroom. Or the backyard. Sometimes she says, _I’ll call you back later._ And then she thinks of an errand she needs to run.

John’s mobile never makes a sound. No more flirty text messages, no more three dots flashing, letting him know that someone is thinking about him, wants to be with him. That used to make him feel cherished. Now he just feels alone. 

 

2013 July

He’s ill and far from home. Another Soviet-era hotel, another night in an institutional room. Almost like being a prisoner. maybe he's been poisoned, but his brain is too feverish to think. His gut has stopped cramping, but the chills remain. He looks at the pills left by the doctor and decides he can manage without questionable medications. Might be paracetamol, might be anything. Poison, perhaps. He tries to sleep.

His dreams are on crack— brilliant and lucid and utterly mad, airports and llamas and talking skulls. The fever, he reminds himself. That could do it. No thermometer, but the doctor said thirty-eight. He is sweating. Is that a good thing? He can’t remember. He supposes that the alternative is dehydration, always a shortcut to death. The sheets already smell like someone else's stale sweat; he drenches the bedding with his own.

He imagines a cool hand slipping onto his forehead, the other hand grasping his wrist. _My doctor._ He hears John’s voice. _Stay with me. Try and stay alive. Don’t die._

“I miss you,” he tells the empty room. “I wish… I wish I knew when I’d be back.”

 _Hurry,_ John says.

 

2013 September

Mary has returned to working full time at the clinic now, her salary going to pay for the family vacation they're planning. It's convenient sharing rides and lunches, and it's nice to have the extra income, but it's also suffocating. John daydreams about getting in the car and driving, never coming back. Because it's just a daydream, he imagines that he goes to London where Sherlock is waiting for him. There's no wife, no boyfriend, just the two of them.

And then he thinks of Rosie. Whatever kind of nightmare his marriage has become, he loves Rosie beyond reason. If he hadn't married, he wouldn't have his daughter, and he cannot imagine that life.

So he smiles at his wife, hugs his daughter, and suppresses his imagination. He is not sure how things can become better, but they must.

Things do change. Mary still talks to him, but there is obvious hostility beneath the patter. She is demanding, critical, scornful. He feels the situation slipping away from him.

One day late in September, he comes home at noon to check on her; she said she was catching something and wouldn’t go in to the clinic. Mostly, he wants to make sure she hasn’t let the dog run away. Bilbo hates the crate, which is where he has to spend his days while they’re at work. Mary will never walk him or even fill his water dish, but he’ll whine and bark if she’s home, and he’s afraid that she’ll lose her patience.

As he turns onto their street, he sees Mary come out of the house and get into a car that’s pulled up in front. He can’t see the driver, but the profile he glimpses tells him it’s a man. He congratulates himself that his suspicions were not just paranoia, waits until they pull away to park and enter the house.

Bilbo begins barking even before he has the door open. He’s wiggling and whining in his cage when he sees John, prances around his feet when released from his prison. The back door opened, he races out.

John sits on the patio and watches the dog sniff the plants, looking for a good one to pee on. The flowers are played out, but when he raises his leg over one of Mary’s perennials, John thinks, _good choice._

“Now what?” he asks Bilbo.

Hearing his name, the dog comes bounding over, wagging his tail. John reaches his hand down and scratches under his chin.

“What do I do now, boy?” he asks.

He has no proof. Maybe he should wait for her to return, see what she says, have it out right now.

Maybe he needs a lawyer. And one thing a lawyer would undoubtedly tell him is that the law favours mothers— even cheating mothers. And if the father has been cheating, too, it doesn’t help. Especially if the father is secretly gay. Even if his lover is dead.

He could go back to work and pretend he never came home, never saw her leave in a strange car with an unknown man. He could bide his time a bit longer, hire a lawyer and maybe a private detective to spy on her. He should not make his move until he’s sure what the best move is.

Even with a good lawyer and evidence that she’s been unfaithful, he could lose.

He notices he’s crying when a tear lands on his khakis, darkening the cloth.

Bilbo paws at John’s shoes, perhaps sensing his distress. He picks up the small dog, feels the tiny heart fluttering in its chest. “Is it my fault?” he asks. “Did I do this?”

The dog licks his nose, begins to lick the tears off his cheeks.

 

He’s still sitting there when Mary turns her key in the door two hours later. “John?” she calls out.

Carrying Bilbo, he comes inside. “Hey. Just came back to see how you were doing.” He points to a pharmacy bag lying on the counter. “Brought you some paracetamol.”

“Oh.” She looks genuinely surprised.

He opens the dog crate and pushes Bilbo inside. “Where were you?”

“Pharmacy,” she says. Coughs. “We don’t have any cough suppressant here, so I got Lauren to take me to get some. She pats her jacket pocket. Coughs.

He frowns. “You could have called me.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt your work. Diane wasn’t busy, didn’t mind.”

 _Lauren? Diane?_ He shrugs, says nothing about her slip. “No trouble. And I thought I’d better check on the dog, make sure he wasn’t bothering you.”

“Thank you. He’s been quiet.” She takes off her jacket. “Well, that little jaunt took all the starch out of me. I think I’ll take a nap.”

He nods. “Good idea.”

 

2013 November

“It’s done,” Sherlock tells his brother. He waves away the man who is trying to shave him with a straight razor. “It took nearly two years, but I have dismantled all the cells.”

Mycroft gives him a thin, joyless smile. “You’re confident you have?”

“The Serbian side was the last piece of the puzzle.” He leans back, allows the barber to continue shaving him. When the last bit of soap is scraped from his face, the barber uses a towel to clean him up, hands him a mirror. Sherlock nods.

“I think, brother, that the puzzle is not quite complete.”

Sherlock scoffs. “I assure you, it is. I have been down every rabbit hole—”

“One piece remains.” Mycroft regards him evenly.

“Not possible.” Sherlock sits up and glares at him. “What piece do you mean?”

“A sleeper cell. It awakened several months after you disappeared. From what we can tell, they are preparing to emerge.”

“Where? Balkans?”

“Toronto.”


	6. Negotiations

2013 November

John Watson is angry, finally. 

He wasn’t always a soldier, but his time in the army shaped him into a person who might strategically bide his time, but inevitably has to act. The inertia of the last two years has been atypical of him, and he now sees the cost. He’s given her time to strategise as well.

Sherlock didn’t make this mess, and John doesn’t regret their relationship. Whatever they had, it was instrumental in crystallising John’s feelings. He doesn’t love Mary, but might have gone even longer, fading into a shadow of the soldier, a middle-aged husband unhappy but resigned to remain until Rosie was older. But now things are unraveling. He is angry with himself for letting it come to this, but he cannot wait this out.

Sherlock is dead, and John cannot bring him back. He has reached an invisible tipping point, and even without any clear plan he knows it’s time to do something.

He’s sitting in his car, looking out over a cold, wind-swept parking lot outside his lawyer’s office. These days, the car is the only place he can go and think, and that is what he needs to do now, before another minute passes.

The lawyer has suggested that he make some decisions about what he is willing to fight for. The only thing he will not give up, he told her, is his daughter. He will give up the house, the car, their savings, every bit of it, if he can keep his daughter.

The lawyer recommended that he check his bank accounts. If Mary is aware and planning her own moves, he needs to make sure she hasn’t drained the accounts. Yet again, he kicks himself. Mary, always so good at running their home, paying the bills and building up the savings, is the one who manages the money. She gives him cash for trips to the store, but he hasn’t used his bank card in months, has no idea what their balance is.

On the way home, he stops at the teller machine, requests the balance for their checking and savings. He hates arguing about money, remembering how his parents were always fighting at the end of their union, vowed he would never make it an issue between him and his wife. Mary is good at managing the household, so he leaves it to her. They rarely have to discuss finances.

He knows what his pay check is, has an idea how much Mary makes. All of the checks go into the joint account, from which they pay their mortgage and other bills. They’ve been careful, no major purchases for a of couple years. They started a fund for Rosie’s education, but that’s in another bank. Everything they own should be in one of these two accounts.

The balance is low, he thinks. Maybe she’s just paid the mortgage. Maybe the credit card bill was high this month. Or maybe she’s siphoning off a bit each month into another account. Yet another issue to discuss.

The conversation he’s been dreading will have to happen soon, he decides. Rosie is going on a sleepover at a friend’s house Friday night. Maybe that will be the time to address it.

 

“My turn to drop the girls at school,” Mary says. She looks towards the bedroom hallway, frowning. “Rosie! Time to go! Why aren’t you ready?”

She’s not dressed for work, he notes. “You’re staying home today?”

She nods without looking at him. “I’m going to see Lila this weekend. Diane will pick the girls up after school today, and Rosie will stay with them. I can drop you at the clinic, but you’ll have to get a ride home with somebody.”

She says this the way she always says things, with the calm assurance that he will not question her decision. But there it is. Something. Does her voice sound a bit tense? Did her eyes dart towards him with just a hint of doubt?

And he knows. This time she won’t be back.

He understands. All the times she left Rosie with other people on such weekends, just so John didn’t have to _sort it out_ , were just to prepare for this time, when she will take his daughter away from him.

He can’t wait any longer. This has to happen now, this morning. It’s not any longer about whether they will separate. It’s no longer about money or who gets the house or the car. It’s about stopping her.

The fumbling words on the tip of his tongue— something about _we need to talk—_ vanish. He can’t tip her off too soon.

“Fine,” he says. He smiles absently, fiddling with the coffee maker, trying to appear as usual. “See you in a few.”

Rosie bounds down the stairs and grabs her jacket off the hook. “Bye, Daddy!” she shouts.

He grabs her up in a hug before she can run out the door. “Bye, Rosebug.” He holds her longer than usual, swaying her back and forth a few times, fearing what is about to happen. “I’ll see you later.”

“I’m going to a sleepover, Daddy,” she says. “After school. Mommy says I get to stay all weekend.”

“Have fun,” he whispers. “Be good.” He kisses her cheek and releases her.

Rosie runs ahead, throwing her book bag in the back of the car. Without a word, Mary follows her out the door, pulling it firmly shut behind her.

Through the window, he watches her back the car out and drive off down the street. Well, this gives him time to think of how to begin the conversation that will end his marriage. And possibly other things.

His apprehension is high. Trying to conjure Captain Watson, who never backed down from a fight, he pours himself a cup of coffee. He will need it, if the talk is going to happen now. He has no idea what he will say. Her plan will be to pretend all is fine.

He opens the door, letting Bilbo out into the yard. When he hears the garage door going up a few minutes later, he goes back into the house and opens the door into the garage to let her know he’s waiting. She lingers for a few minutes in the car. He sees her looking at her phone. When she finally comes through the door, he offers her a mug of coffee. A bit of skim milk, the way she takes it. He adds cream to his.

“Can we talk?” he asks. “Is this a good time?” He’s asking questions, and senses that this is only emphasising their unequal positions. He is, as always, the one who doesn’t know, and she will tell him what to think. He needs to be calm, tell her what he wants.

“Yes, we can talk,” she replies.

When she doesn’t move, he gestures towards the chairs, “Let’s have a seat.”

She shrugs. “It doesn’t matter, John.”

“Well.” He sits. She stands leaning against the counter. Clearing his throat, he begins. “Things are… well, I think we both recognise that we’re not… doing well. Our marriage. It’s not… good.” _Too hesitant_ , he thinks. But at least he’s not revealing his hand.

“No, it’s not.” She smiles then, a tight, unhappy smile that is worse than tears. And he realises that he’s never seen Mary cry. Not on their wedding day, not in the pain of childbirth. She has no family, she has said, so there haven’t been any funerals for parents or grandparents, when a normal person might cry. He supposes that he’s always thought of her as stoic and reserved, not easily showing emotion. Now he wonders if she feels anything.

_Am I married to a sociopath?_

“I’m sorry,” he says, gaining confidence from her agreement. “I thought things would get better.”

“Why?” She laughs. “Because your lover died?”

Realisation settles like a heavy weight on his chest. She has known, probably for a long time. She’s been waiting, and now everything is ready. He must make his move.

“I’ll move out,” he says. “You can have the house.”

“I don’t want it.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. Her hands do not shake.

“You’re leaving.” He remembers the man, keeps his voice even. “You’re leaving me for someone else. You’ve been having an affair, too.”

“Oh, John.” She shakes her head. “You have no idea.”

He stands. “You’re not taking Rosie. She’s my daughter. I won’t have her raised by another man.”

“You’re an idiot.”

He folds his arms across his chest. “I am prepared to fight you. I’ve hired a lawyer. She says—”

“John.” She regards him with something like pity. Not actual pity, though, which would require emotion. More like contempt. “Do you know why I married you?”

Mute, he shakes his head.

“You’re loyal and protective. When I met you, that’s what I needed.”

This isn't exactly a declaration of love that he’s hearing. It sounds more like convenience. _Sociopath?_

“Look, if you’re tired of me, if you want to leave, let’s at least work this out amicably,” he says. “Things have happened, and it’s clear that staying together isn’t working for either of us.”

“You were a soldier,” she says. “You understand. You were willing to die for a cause.”

This momentarily silences him. “What do you mean? What cause?”

“I used to be idealistic,” she says. “Like you. Totally dedicated. And very, very patient.”

 _She’s making no sense_ , he thinks. Something else is going on here, something he’s too slow to see, too unwilling to realise. “Go with your boyfriend. I don’t care. You’re not taking my daughter.” He steps towards her, his hands balled into fists at his side.

“Are you sure she’s yours, John?” She is smiling that _poor John, such a fool_ smile.

Another gut punch. She’s trying to surprise him, make him lose his footing. He holds his ground. _Of course she’s my daughter. She has my face, my temperament…_ “She’s mine. And if you force her to choose, she will go with me.”

“I’ve been waiting a long time, John,” she says. “But now, I’m done.” She reaches into her handbag, takes out a gun.

“What?” he says. That seems like an inadequate question to be asking, but he can’t frame his thoughts into a reasonable inquiry. “What are you doing?”

He hears a car pull into the driveway, a car door slam shut. The door from the garage opens. A man, also with a gun, enters and stands, waiting. _The boyfriend, of course_.

He sizes up his opponents and sees the _something_ he’s missed. Not the boyfriend. This isn’t just an affair. She may have slept with this man, but she is not looking at him like a lover. _You were a soldier._

They’re soldiers.

_Keep her talking._

“Don’t shoot me,” he says, holding up his hands. “Mary, tell me what you want.”

“I have no further use for you.” She nods at the man and says something in a foreign language. Russian, he thinks. Glancing at John, the man replies, shaking his head.

She turns back to John. “I want nothing. I’m a patient woman, John, but I’m done with you. The only thing I want is my daughter.”

“Please,” he says. “Please don’t take Rosie.” _I will hunt you down and kill you myself._

“Too late.” She speaks to the man again. He shrugs and gives her a response. Their guns do not waver. She turns her attention back on him. “Sit. Feodor does not agree that this is a good idea, but I will let you live. You must be bound, though, and gagged. You cannot follow, and you cannot call for help. Rosie will be with me.”

Bilbo is barking at something in the back yard.

She sighs and rolls her eyes. “That fucking dog.”

A moment’s inattention is all he needs. He’s been weighing his options, deciding who will be the better target. If he goes for Mary, the man will without hesitation shoot him. He might expect a bit of mercy from Mary, though, if he goes for the man and disarms him. She might negotiate with him for this man's life.

He barrels into him, knocking him down, grappling for the gun. Wrapping his fingers around the grip, he rolls over to face her, aiming the gun at her.

“Idiot,” she says. Without hesitation, she fires. _No mercy, then_.

He remembers being shot before, in Afghanistan, but that was a large bullet, fired at some distance. This bullet is smaller, but still the impact slams him against the floor. He struggles to sit up. The front of his shirt is wet with blood. His vision darkens. _Don’t panic_ , he tells himself. Panic will only force his heart to beat faster, pumping blood out faster. The bullet has missed his heart, he thinks, but he can’t be sure. He coughs and tastes blood. Maybe five litres in his body, and it is rushing out too fast to stop.

The man has recovered his gun and is aiming it at him. He looks at Mary, who shakes her head.

“That was stupid, John,” she says. “You won’t be conscious much longer, maybe a few minutes until you bleed out. But I’ll leave you with some happy news. Your gay lover is not dead. For two years, he’s been dismantling the cells of our organisation. Unfortunately, he missed this one. I’m sure he’ll be at your funeral, though.”

He struggles to rise, but there is so much blood, and he knows it is futile. He doesn’t see them leave because his vision is gone, but he hears the door shut and her key turn, locking it. He hears the car start, back out of the drive way, the garage door closing.

 _Slow down_ , he thinks. _Sherlock is alive_.

 

The Watson house is a split-level, built around 1975, two bedrooms, one and a half baths, slate-blue shingle with white trim, one-car garage. A neat shrubbery surrounds the foundation, with a few played-out mums spaced in front. This scene belongs in the dictionary, next to the word _suburban_ , he decides.The only item spoiling this faultless picture is the police car parked in the driveway, with a cop sitting in the front seat looking very bored. He leads them up the brick path and lets them in through the front door.

Sherlock pauses in the entryway, inhales. Gun powder, blood, coffee, laundry soap, and a whiff of furniture polish, in that order of prominence. No dust, A clean house, tidy to the point of obsession. John hasn’t ever struck him as a person unable to tolerate a bit of clutter, so it’s the wife, he assumes. He cannot quite think of her as _Mary_ ; he does not want to be on a first name basis with the woman who shot his lover. He remembers John’s face in the hotel in Amsterdam, the discomfort he saw there when he was on the phone with her. So, a controlling woman, intolerant of mess.

The furnishings are comfortable, but impersonal. The carpet is taupe, walls are a dusty pink, the sofa and loveseat picking up the pink, adding off-white, periwinkle blue, and fern green to the mix. There is a piano where the small Watson probably practices pieces like _Twinkle, Twinkle_ and _Frere Jacques_. Pictures on the wall, water-colour paintings, four seasons of trees reflecting on water. No one ever sits here, he guesses. He glances through to the kitchen and family room area.

One family photo, framed, over a tweedy sofa. Taken maybe three years earlier, judging by the size of the child. John is as always, handsome and guileless, a genuine smile. He does not love his wife; the smile is for the child in his lap. She is a smaller image of her father, a bit of stubbornness evident on her face. Moments before the picture was taken, she hadn’t been in the mood to smile, perhaps fussing about the bow her mother made her wear, but her father had said something to her just before the shutter snapped. He made a little joke in her ear, and despite her intent to be uncooperative, she smiled.

The woman is pretty, he supposes— fair skin, blue eyes, blond hair. Herface is broader than average, her cheekbones prominent. Croatian, perhaps, or Serbian. He has seen smiles like this before— utterly insincere, presenting a perfect disguise to the world. She is a consummate actress. Probably none of her co-workers and neighbours have noticed that she is a sociopath. Maybe John has figured it out now.

He walks through the living room into the kitchen, where there is blood on the mock-wood vinyl tiles. Disturbing to think of what happened here earlier today, but John has already been transferred to the nearest hospital with a trauma centre, and is awaiting surgery. Sherlock hasn’t been to see him yet, knowing that holding an unconscious man’s hand as he’s prepped for surgery isn’t really the best use of his talents now.

What he needs at this moment is to be sure he has seen everything in this house.

Two mugs on the table, coffee. One with skim, one with cream. Apparently, John Watson was able to enjoy half of a mug of coffee with cream before his evil wife put a bullet in his chest. He wonders. _Why the heart, not the head?_ It’s unintentionally symbolic, perhaps. She has no heart, instinctively shoots his. She does not fear his brain, enjoys thinking of him bleeding out, losing everything he loved.

 _The child_ , he thinks. That is what matters now. John stayed only because he was afraid of losing her. Sherlock will make sure he doesn’t.

“Where is the dog?” he asks.

The constable frowns. “What dog?”

“The one who drinks water out of this bowl,” he says, tapping it with his foot. “Where is the dog?” The incompetence of police constables is not limited to London, he decides.

Constable Warren looks around, as if he expects a dog to pop out of the cabinet or drop from the ceiling. “Didn’t see any dog.”

Sherlock walks to the back door, surveys the yard. Barbecue grill, patio furniture, a sandbox, all covered, a sun umbrella, folded and propped inside the porch. He opens the door, and immediately a small terrier runs out of the bushes towards him.

“Not much of a watch dog, are you?” Sherlock says as the small animal dances in circles, overjoyed to see a human. He lets the dog inside, and it immediately heads for its bowl, then stops, catching the scent of blood. At once, it begins to howl.

He picks the animal up, scratching its ears until the howls quiet to whimpers. It’s wearing a collar, and Sherlock turns it so he can read the tag. _Bilbo._

He sets the dog near the bowl, watches it drink cautiously and then walk towards the blood, sniffing, its body trembling. Sherlock picks him up again, gently rubbing his ears. Spying the crate, he sets him down at the entrance and gives him a boost inside.

Next, the bedrooms.

The master bedroom is painfully tidy. Poor John Watson. If he should so much as toss a sock on the floor, he will no doubt be in the doghouse with Bilbo. Two clothes hampers, one for dark and one for light clothing. Two bedside tables, a chest of drawers where John stores his socks, underwear, and jumpers. A bureau full of Mary’s things. A closet where her dresses and slacks hang beside the doctor’s jackets and shirts. A rack of ugly ties (gifts from Young Watson), shoes in neat pairs, tucked into cubbies. She did not pack much, he deduces. Leaving it all behind was her objective. The bed was slept in and then made with military precision.

He heads down to the hall towards the other bedroom. Here, he might find something he can use. He will need to know everything about this little girl if he is to persuade her to leave her mother.

Like the other rooms, this one is very neat, but here, at least, he can see a personality. This is not a little girl who loves pink clothes and cute hair bows. Not a little princess, but not exactly a tom-boy, either. Gymnastics, not ballet. She plays piano, but she loves animals. An entire shelf is filled with dog figurines. Another holds horses, not little ponies with purple manes and long eyelashes, but realistic models. A child-sized microscope sits on the desk. At this point, she probably wants to be a veterinarian, he deduces.

A map of the stars is tacked to the ceiling over the bed, and a chart showing the taxonomy of the animal kingdom is taped to the closet door. Her father encourages her interest in science, he sees.

The bookshelf confirms his hypothesis. It contains mostly animal stories, but also books about weather, the oceans, space travel, as well as _Alice in Wonderland, Harry Potter, The Golden Compass, The Book of Three_. On the bedside, one book, well-worn and loved: _The Hobbit._

Is it enough? It will have to do.

He will bring Rosie Watson back to her father.

And if John has died, he will kill her mother.


	7. Rosie and Her Dad

2013 November

In the parking lot of a strip mall outside of Detroit, Sherlock sits in an unmarked car with two CIA agents. It’s nearly midnight, still the same the day that John Watson was shot by his wife and left for dead.

“We didn't know about the woman until recently,” Callaway says. “She came out of nowhere.”

Lopez nods. “The others we've been following for months. Yesterday, she showed up with the Serb.”

“Did they have the child with them?”

“Yes,” Lopez says. “She didn’t look happy. Mom was having words with her.”

He glances at his mobile. John’s been out of surgery for several hours, but is still not out of danger. During his last call to the hospital, a very patient nurse explained to him that calling every hour would not speed John’s healing. She promised she would call him at six, when her shift ended. These doctors and nurses will do everything they can to save John, he knows, whether he is rude to them or not. Still, he remembers how John is always polite and cheerful with waiters and desk clerks and cab drivers, so he thanks her and remembers her name, _Nadine_.

He looks across the road at the motel where Mary Watson checked in early this afternoon. It’s a Red Roof Inn. Next door is a Waffle House; a Rite Aid with barricaded windows is on the other side. Plastic bags and assorted bits of refuse litter the parking lot, which is only half full. All the cars seem battered, with dented fenders and doors, broken tailpipes. He assumes that there are nicer places to be in the States, but everything in Detroit feels run-down and dirty.

“Do we know their plan?” he asks. They’re near the airport, so they might be flying out soon, he thinks.

Callaway shrugs. They’re not sure they trust him, these CIA agents. He is finding that Mycroft’s clout can reach a long way, even across the Atlantic, but his influence does not extend to his brother. They are cooperative, but consider him a nuisance, at best. He is not MI6, so what is he doing here?

“We’ll need to secure the child,” Sherlock says. “If your people are going in with the intention of using deadly force, I need to get her out before that happens.”

“Agreed,” says Lopez. “We’re just not sure what kind of hold the mother has over her. And she may not let her out of her sight. And even when parents are criminals, kids still cling to them. The girl may not go willingly. We can’t afford to spring the trap too soon.”

“The motel is being watched?” asks Sherlock.

The agents nod. “Mrs Watson arrived earlier with the child and a male companion, one Feodor Voronov,” Lopez says. “Their room has been tapped, and the lobby bugged. He went out and brought back a pizza and wings. An hour later they made contact with someone, but that person has yet to appear.”

As he speaks, a car pulls up in front of the motel and two men get out.

“It’s them,” Callaway says. She’s listening to their conversation on an ear piece. “Room 214.”

Mary and her companion are in Room 123, a flight down. As they hoped, she and Feodor leave the room and meet the others upstairs, leaving the child asleep in bed.

 

Sherlock picks the lock and slips into the darkened room. Before moving, he lets his eyes adjust to the light until he can check for a baby monitor. 

“Mommy?” a small voice asks.

He does not know what to say to that. She may begin screaming at any moment. No monitor, he notes with relief.

“Your daddy sent me,” he whispers. “Don’t turn on the light.”

He comes over to the bed and looks down at her. There is a slice of light coming through the blackout curtains and he is able to see her face.

She is so like John that he has to smile. Older than the picture he saw at the house, but still a small child. She frowns up at him with the face of her father, wary but unafraid.

“Who are you?” she asks.

“Sherlock. I’m a friend of your father.”

“What’s my father’s name?”

“Dr John Hamish Watson. His birthday is July 7. He’s forty-one years old. He has a scar on his left shoulder that he got in Afghanistan.”

“What’s _my_ name?” This small Watson is very skeptical, very thorough.

“Rosamund Mary Watson.” _She may one day want to change her middle name_ , he thinks.

She sits up and studies him. “If you were Daddy’s friend, he would have told me about you. How did you meet him?”

That is a story which needs to be redacted. “We were in Frankfurt, Germany, in a restaurant, and ended up at the same table, talking. I live in London, so we rarely see each other, but we’ve kept in touch.”

“You’re not a doctor.”

He’s letting her lead the conversation, but is acutely aware that at any moment someone could be checking on her. And agents are waiting to storm into Room 214. _Patience,_ he tells himself, remembering John.

“No, I’m a detective. I solve crimes.”

He lets this sink in. She has accepted that he is who he says, but is not certain she ought to go with him. The mother has considerable control over her, but she is not happy about being here, and her mother is not answering her questions. He must provide answers, make her feel safe.

“Your father sent me to bring you to him,” he says. “He asked me to protect you. You’re not safe here. Will you come with me?”

She chews her lip. “What’s my safe word?”

He smiles. John Watson is a soldier. He has prepared his small daughter for all eventualities. “Bilbo.”

 

Once they slip out a side door, avoiding the lobby, he lifts her up and carries her across the parking lot to the waiting car.

“Where are you taking me?”

She has not asked about her mother. “To Toronto.” He gestures at the unmarked car. “We’ll wait here for a bit.”

She shivers and slides into the backseat. “Okay.”

Sherlock wishes he’d thought to grab a blanket off the bed. “Do you understand why he sent me for you?”

She bites her lip and scowls. “Feodor is a bad man.”

“Yes, he’s a very bad man.”

“I want to go home,” she says. “Is Daddy there?”

“Your father is in Toronto,” he replies, carefully not answering the question. It isn’t yet time to tell her what has happened, not until he knows what John’s condition is.

“I was supposed to have a sleepover with my friends,” she says.

“What did your mother tell you when she picked you up?”

“She said we had to go visit cousin Lila. I didn’t want to go. She told me to stop crying about it, but I wasn’t crying.” She gives Sherlock a solemn look. “I’m not a baby.”

“Obviously,” he says. “How old are you?”

“Eight.” She looks a bit smug. “My friend Carly still sleeps with the light on. She’s nine.”

“Very brave of you. I suppose you’ve given up believing in monsters, as well?”

“‘Course.” She smiles and he sees John in her features again. “I hit a bully once. He didn’t expect a girl to hit back.”

“Impressive. I know your father must be very proud of you.”

Lopez returns to the car, motions Sherlock out to talk. “They’re getting into position now,” he says. “A car’s coming for you and the girl. I think it would be best if you were gone.”

Sherlock nods as another unmarked car pulls up. “We’ll need protection until you’re sure you’ve got them all.”

“This is agent Rogers,” Lopez tells him as an agent gets out of the other car. “He’ll stay with you.”

It isn’t like Sherlock Holmes to leave the scene before guns blaze and criminals are apprehended, but he’s certain that John Watson’s daughter doesn’t need to see her mother shot or arrested. He hurries the child into the car, slides into the back seat beside her.

“Are we going home now?” she asks.

He can see her rubbing her eyes, tired and not ready to think about things. He can’t take her to the house; her father’s blood is still staining the kitchen floor. They can’t go to the hospital, not yet. Hotel room, it is. “It’s a long drive, love. Do you think you can sleep?”

She nods and he tucks his coat over her. For a long time, she stares out the window silently, but by the time they’re on the expressway, her eyes close and she leans against him.It feels normal to put his arm around her, and so he does.

The drive to Toronto is over three hours. By the time they pull up to a Fairfield Inn, she has slept for a couple hours. He carries her, still asleep, into the room and lays her in the bed. The agent who drove them takes position in the hall outside the room, and Sherlock settles into the chair.

At five o’clock his phone buzzes. “Mycroft,” he says, stepping out onto the balcony.

“Success, brother, though at a cost. Mrs Watson was killed when she drew a gun on one of the agents. Her confederates are in custody.”

“Good.” He has no sorrow for Mary Morstan Watson, would gladly have shot her himself.

“How is Dr Watson?”

“I don’t know. I’m not to call again, the hospital said. They promised to call me in about an hour.”

“We should discuss what comes next, brother,” Mycroft says. “Provisions must be made for the child. Fortunately, Mrs Watson has no surviving family to deal with.”

“I assume John has relatives who may step in, if it comes to… that.” He looks through the window, sees that the lump in the bed has not moved.

Mycroft makes a quiet noise, denoting _you should have let me do a background check on him years ago._ “I mean, if he lives. Do you intend to pursue a relationship? If so, what about the child?” He makes another small sound, this one meaning _we both know you are not good with children, Sherlock._

He rubs his hand across his face. “I will do whatever John wants. It’s too early, Mycroft. We’ll talk later.” He ends the call.

The hospital will call soon, and he will know. Until then, it’s hard to think about. The lump in the bed stirs a bit, then settles down again. Sherlock doesn’t spend much time around small children. People don’t ask him to admire pictures of their babies or tell him cute stories about their toddlers. It’s just assumed that he is not interested. He is the last person any parent would ask to mind their child. He’s never sure what to say to children. People teach their children not to lie, but then withhold the truth about so many things from them. He understands that a child’s brain is not like an adult’s, that they cannot comprehend some things, but it seems wrong to make up stories. Children should hear the truth. Children love fairy tales, but real life demands the truth.

And here is John’s daughter, a child who may possibly become part of his life. Soon, he’ll have to think about that.

At six o’clock, his mobile rings again. He steps out onto the balcony.

 

Rosie is sitting up in the bed, yawning, when he comes back into the room. “Was that my dad?”

He sits down on the bed. It isn’t for him to tell her about her mother’s death. But he can’t keep pretending that her father is sitting at home, just waiting. He looks at the little girl, choosing his words. “Your father is in hospital,” he says. “I just talked to the doctor, and he is doing well, but he will have to stay there for a few days.”

She frowns and a small, confused crease appears between her eyes. “Did he get hurt?” she whispers.

“Yes. He was shot. But a very clever doctor removed the bullet and fixed him so he’ll be all right.”

Her lips quiver. “Who shot him?”

He hesitates. It’s not his to tell, he decides. “A very bad person. Someone who will never hurt him again.”

Now she’s crying. He gathers her into his arms and lets her. After a few minutes, she looks up at him. “I want to see him.” She wipes her eyes and nose on her shirt. “Take me to the hospital.”

He smiles. “Of course.” He’s pretty sure that hospitals have rules about children, but this is John Watson’s child, the daughter of a doctor. He will find a way to get by tedious regulations. Maybe Nadine will help.

 

John wakes up feeling like he’s floating in a grey haze. _Morphine_ , he decides. He hears the beeping of monitors. Hospital, then. He tries to remember what happened.

A voice floats into his consciousness from somewhere nearby. “I’m sorry, but children are not allowed in the ICU.”

“She is not a mere _child._ She is a child of above-average intelligence who has just lost one parent, the same person who shot her other parent. She is already _traumatised,_ according to your definition, and is now being caused further anguish by your ridiculous regulations. Her father is a doctor; she understands that there will be tubes and machines keeping him alive.”

It’s a familiar voice, one he hasn’t heard for months… years…

“Mr Holmes, we have received authorisation to let you see Mr Watson—”

“ _Doctor_ Watson. She is his daughter, his only family member present.”

“Dr Watson.” The other voice pauses for a moment, then resumes, resolute. “Illogical as it may seem, Mr Holmes, there are some regulations that we cannot bend. Children are not permitted inside the ICU, even with an authorised adult. Regardless of how mature she may seem, regardless of whatever connections you have used to get yourself authorised, you cannot make this determination.”

And there’s the pain, just under the gauzy darkness. He grimaces. Mary, with a gun. _Idiot._

He moans, tries to speak. _Rosie._ His lips are moving, but no sound is coming out.

“John?”

Someone is leaning over him.

The machine is beeping more quickly now. A searing pain spreads from his chest down through his abdomen, into his limbs. It surrounds him like a fire that is both cold and hot, bright and dark, on a completely different scale of measurement. He thrashes, trying to move his arms to tear free of this torture.

“John, you’re okay.” A hand, holding his fingers. “They’re adjusting the pump, so you should feel better in a moment.” He knows the voice, this warm baritone. He knows the hand that’s gently pushing his fringe off his forehead. “You’re going to be fine, John. You’re breathing on your own now, but they’ve got you restrained so you won’t pull at your tubes.”

He opens his eyes just as the morphine begins to tamp the pain down. “Sherlock,” he whispers.

“I’m here.” Sherlock Holmes is smiling at him.

 _Rosie,_ he thinks. He’s going under again, slipping away. It’s so soft, so effortless… But he needs to know. “Rosie,” he rasps.

“Rosie is fine, John. She’s staying with friends right now, and I’m checking on her often. You’ll see her soon.”

He relaxes, lets himself slide into the grey.

 

Time passes, but he has no idea whether it’s been minutes or days. The room is dark, but he’s no longer floating in a void, drifting between pain and sleep and terrifying dreams. He is aware that he is in hospital, and the array of flashing, beeping machines that surround him, as well as the number of tubes coming out of him, tell him that he did not dream being shot by his wife, lying on his kitchen floor in a pool of his own blood, fumbling for the phone in his pocket. He must have called for help, but he doesn’t remember that part.

He also doesn’t remember why Mary shot him. He does remember the gun. And the other man, also with a gun. He had deduced her affair, but then it wasn’t an affair. They were international terrorists. Or something. Maybe he dreamed that part.

 _Rosie is fine._ A memory floats up. She’s on her way to school, and he’s hugging her. She’s excited, happy, ready to go. He kisses her goodbye, feels like crying. She is leaving and he may never see her again.

There is someone in the room with him. He’s still taking in his surroundings, trying to sort out what is real.

A memory. _I’m here._ A hospital room. Sherlock’s voice, his hand.

But he knows that Sherlock is dead, remembers the news footage of his fall, and he tells himself it isn’t strange that he would hallucinate talking to his dead lover when he was so close to death himself. Even if that brief conversation took place somewhere between life and death, he’s glad that he felt his presence while he was struggling to find his way back.

Another memory. _Your lover isn’t dead._ It’s Mary’s voice he remembers saying that. She was angry, and only said it to be cruel. Lying there on the floor, bleeding out, he thought: it _will be Sherlock’s turn to grieve me_.

But he won’t grieve John. John is just someone Sherlock sees from time to time, has sex with, and then leaves. The last time he left, he didn’t intend to come back. And then he died.

His eyes fill with tears.

“John.” A voice speaks from the darkness. “Are you in pain?”

_I must be dead._

A hand rests on his forehead.

“Sherlock,” he whispers.

“I’m right here, John. Tell me what you need.”

“Don’t be dead. Please.”

“Hush, hush. I’m here.” The hand strokes his hair, and it feels so very real that he dares to open his eyes. Sherlock smiles. “Ah, there you are.”

He wets his lips. “Where are we?”

Sherlock pours water in a paper cup and holds it to his lips. “Drink. You sound parched. Slow down— not too much at once.”

He swallows and finds that his throat feels better. “How long have I been out?”

“You were shot five days ago. They had you intubated for a while, so they had to sedate you. Two days ago they took the breathing tube out and increased the morphine a bit to compensate since your pain level seemed to go up.”

He closes his eyes, tries to get a sense of what is wrong inside his body. He remembers the impact of the bullet, the blood on his shirt. “What did it hit?”

“You are extremely lucky. I assume your lying bitch of a wife is a good marksman and could have killed you if she wanted. Either she miscalculated because she was caught off guard, or she didn’t intend to kill you. In any case, the bullet entered the right side of your chest, missing major blood vessels and bypassing your spinal column. Most of the damage is to the upper lobe of your right lung. You will have a scar that is not quite symmetrically placed in relation to your other scar but much neater.”

He nods. _Lucky shot, indeed_. “Where is she?”

“Dead. I don’t think it could have been prevented. She wasn’t going into custody without a fight.”

“Good.” He is surprised at how easy this is to accept. All of his months of hoping for an amicable ending, thinking he didn’t want Rosie to lose her family… and Mary had not hesitated to shoot him. “Does Rosie know?”

“She knows you were shot, but I didn’t tell her who did it. She hasn’t asked about her mother, and I didn’t think it was my place to tell her.”

He nods again, studies Sherlock’s face. He looks pale, thinner than John remembered. He’s been dead, but not really dead, for two years.

“And you,” he says. “How did you survive that fall? You ought to look much worse.”

“Yes, well. About that.” Sherlock stares down at their hands, which are clasped. “It was a orchestrated, obviously. My brother helped. He has… resources.” He looks uncomfortable. “Anything I say is going to sound like an excuse, but I’ll say it anyway. The man I was after—”

“Moriarty,” John supplies.

“Yes. James Moriarty. He was targeting people I knew, trying to force me to back off. I faked my death in order to take down his organisation.”

“And you succeeded?”

“Yes. At a cost.” He smiles grimly. “Coming back from the dead isn’t easy. People don’t forget a thing like that. They’re not so willing to let you come back, even if you explain it to them.”

“Ah. Your boyfriend…?”

“That’s over. He married a woman while I was dead.” He laughs. “We had split already, though. I'd distanced myself from him weeks before.” He looks at John. “I was distancing myself from you as well. That was much harder. I hoped it would keep Moriarty from noticing you.”

“Mary knew you were alive. Was she part of the group you were tracking down?”

“Yes. When I returned, Mycroft told me. I didn’t want to leave the job unfinished, so I agreed to come to Toronto. And when I found out who it was… well, I thought only of you and Rosie. Making sure you were safe was all I cared about.”

“A strange fate,” he mutters. “Did he know?”

“He? You mean Moriarty. No, I don’t think he knew about you. She figured it out, though I’m not sure when. You were her disguise, part of her long game.”

“Thank you.” He sighs, feeling the moment of alertness beginning to fade away. “For Rosie. Thank you.” His eyes drift shut.

“John,” Sherlock says. “You and I, this thing...”

“Hm?” He struggles to open his eyes again.

“Perhaps this isn’t the time, but I need you to know. I wanted to talk to you, every single day. There wasn’t a day I didn’t think of you and hope that I’d see you again. I just want to say—”

Drowsy, John smiles. “Love you too, Sherlock.” And then he’s asleep.

 

The next time he opens his eyes, Sherlock is there, holding Rosie in his arms.

“See?” says Sherlock. “I told you he was getting better.”

“Daddy,” she says, reaching out for him.

“You can hold his hand,” Sherlock tells her. “No hugs yet.”

Rosie carefully slips her hand into John’s and gives it a small squeeze. “Does it hurt, Daddy?”

“Not any more,” he says. His eyes meet Sherlock’s. “Thank you.”

It only lasts a few minutes, during which they talk about school and sleepovers and other ordinary things, and then the nurse is hustling her out the door, and Rosie smiles and kisses him and says goodbye.

John cries a little, and the nurse, Nadine, tells him that very soon he’ll be stepped down to a room where she can visit him without breaking any rules.

 

There are plenty of things to deal with. Knowing John isn’t ready to make any major decisions, Sherlock asks Mycroft for help. Within hours, a neatly-dressed young woman with over-sized glasses and a serious air meets him at the hospital, pulls out a notebook, and begins to note all the things that need doing. Her name is Alison.

“The woman’s funeral,” he says. “The coroner’s office keeps calling about picking up the body. John doesn’t need to think about this. See that she’s buried. Or cremated. Whatever. An obituary, I suppose, is necessary. Minimal information.

“Of course.”

“The house needs to be cleaned. The tile in the kitchen is ruined. Have the floor redone and put the house on the market.”

“Dr Watson wants to sell?”

“I can’t see him living in the house where his dead wife almost killed him, can you? Well, get it ready, have their things boxed up, and we’ll let him decide when he’s a bit stronger.”

She writes. “Anything else? Will you be wanting a temporary flat?”

He hasn’t thought that far ahead. John will be in hospital for a few weeks, it appears. Rosie is staying with the Taylors, though he is making sure to spend time with her alone, so he can gauge her understanding of the events. It’s only been a week, but soon she must be told, and though his instinct is to sit her down and explain it to her, he isn’t sure how John would feel about it. He’s known her for just a week, and not under the best of circumstances. “Yes, I think so. For a couple months, perhaps. Something furnished, with a fold-out cot.”

Alison goes off to take care of all of this, and a burden is lifted from his shoulders.

 

John is improving. He’s managed to navigate, with assistance, the route to the loo and back. This entitles him to a shower, and the promise of solid food that isn’t really all that solid, jelly and soup and thin gruel. He is ready to be moved into a step-down unit, where he will be able to see his daughter.

They need to talk. These small steps are slowly moving them forward, but there are questions about what will happen when he is well enough to leave the hospital. They need to talk.

Sherlock has never been good at relationships, and he is now completely at a loss. They are people who know each other intimately, and barely at all.

During his long absence, he came to realise that his feelings for John are more than attraction. Physically, he desires him, but surprisingly, his deepest fantasies of John while they were apart were of conversations. He recalled things they talked about as they lay in bed, their sweat cooling, their bodies limp and sated. And as he traveled through Eastern Europe, living in shabby hotels and hunting down Moriarty’s minions, he talked to John. He would comment on the terrible tea in Budapest, the inadequate heating in Minsk. He described to him the beauty of the old world cities he visited, the loneliness of always being a stranger with no name.

And John talked back to him in these fantasies. He carried Sherlock through the tedium and the pain and the fear. When Sherlock passed a wine merchant’s shop on a street in Bucharest, John joked about the terrible wine he bought in Las Vegas. When he saw a MacDonalds in Kiev, John remembered them looking for a place to buy a hamburger in Amsterdam (where American ketchup was nowhere to be found). And when he was staring at his cheap mobile, wishing that he could just tap in John’s number and hear his voice, he remembered flirting and texting and emoticons. He imagined John teasing him that he was wearing socks to bed, and explaining to him that it isn’t just the cold, it’s the possibility of having to wake up in the dead of night and _run._

And John said, _stay alive. Please, don’t die._

That was how he survived, by talking to John. But the John Watson lying in a hospital bed wasn’t with him in any of those places, never said any of those things, and Sherlock isn’t sure where that leaves him. It might be best if he simply saw John through this, helped him get back on his feet, and then returned to London. John’s life has been destroyed, and Sherlock doesn’t know if he can be part of whatever new life he fashions for himself.

But he said, _Love you too._ Whatever he saw in Sherlock’s face told him what Sherlock was afraid to say. Even drugged up, half asleep, he saw it. But does he remember saying it? 

He thinks about booking a flight to London, then remembers his empty flat and the life he can’t return to. He will wait a bit longer.

 

2013 December

Sherlock paces slowly alongside John as he practices walking down the hospital corridor. He’s using an aluminium walker and grumbles about how ancient he feels. “Only five years since I was in Afghanistan,” he says. “My body feels like it’s aged twenty.”

“You’re strong,” Sherlock says. “I’m amazed at how well you’re doing, considering that you nearly died. The doctors say you’ll recover.”

“Gunshot wounds take a long time. My shoulder still bothers me.”

“You were shot less than a month ago and you’re walking, eating real food, and taking care of yourself. I’d call that progress.”

They’ve reached the end of the hall. John grunts and begins the turn.

“Let’s sit,” Sherlock suggests, indicating a bench by the window. It’s a cold, bright day in December. A few flakes of snow are testing out the air, planning a possible blanketing of Toronto, if the weather report is accurate.

John eases himself down and Sherlock sits next to him.

“I suppose… you’ve got things to do,” John says. “How soon will you be leaving?”

“I have nothing to do that is more important than this,” he replies. “I will stay as long as you want me.”

John is silent for a long moment. “What if that’s forever?”

Sherlock feels his mouth go slack. “You want… this?” He blinks, looks at John, who’s ducked his head and is studying his walker as if it’s fascinating. “You want us to be…”

John flushes. “I shouldn’t have… I know you live there, and I live here, and if you want to see me just once a year, I’ll take that. But I want more. That night in Frankfurt, I think I met the person I want to spend my life with.” He looks up at Sherlock, his eyes very blue in the sunlight. “I love you.”

“John,” he says. “I love you too.” And though he’s kissed every inch of this man’s body, and been given pleasure in equal measure, he is suddenly shy. Everything that went before was about sex, but this is different. It will mean something new, and Sherlock needs to be sure John believes it. He want to kiss him, but his brain is overthinking this—

John does not hesitate. He pulls Sherlock towards him and kisses him. It’s gentle, just the right blend of passion and romance, and it says _I want you forever._

When he pulls away, he’s grinning. “So,” he says.

Sherlock grins back at him. “Indeed.”

 

He takes Rosie Christmas shopping. They wander through a suburban mall, in and out of clothing stores and book stores and shops that Sherlock can’t figure out.

Rosie is very methodical, evaluating all options and considering them over ice cream while they sit in the food court. “When I was little, I used to buy him ties, but maybe a book would be better.”

“Better how?” he asks, curious about an eight year old’s process of selection. He is not good at buying presents, but fortunately no one ever expects a gift from him.

“He’s not going back to work yet, and he’ll need something to keep him busy. He likes reading spy novels, but maybe after getting shot he won’t feel like reading about people shooting each other.”

“Good point.” He nabs one of the two cherries off the sundae they are sharing.

“I used to buy Mommy plants all the time,” she says. “She really liked gardening. Daddy hates it.” She looks down, stirs the melting ice cream. “What happened to my mother?”

It’s the moment, and he’s the one who can answer. “She…” he hesitates, trying to think what John would say. _Deceased_ is too clinical. _Dead_ might be blunt. _Gone to heaven_ is a lie.

“Did she get shot too?” She’s looking at him now, trusting him to tell her what nobody else has mentioned.

“Yes,” he says, feeling the weight of the truth on his shoulders. She wants to know, and she has a right. “Your mother had some friends who were bad people. She made some bad choices.”

“She’s dead,” Rosie says. “I heard Jana’s mom say it. It’s a secret.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. He’s not sorry Mary Watson is dead, but he feels bad that this little girl has to experience her loss as a shameful secret. He thinks of all the murders he’s investigated without a thought for what happens afterwards to the murderer’s family, to the victim’s family. Case closed, but other things are not so easily filed away. Rosie will live with this her whole life. When she graduates or gets her first job, falls in love for the first time or marries, she will be reminded that she doesn’t have a mother.

“They were going to divorce,” she says. “They didn’t love each other any more.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” he says. That is something children often fear, he has heard, that if they’d been better behaved or more loveable, their parents wouldn’t have had to divorce.

“I know.” She licks her spoon and sets it on the table.

He picks up the paper serviette and dips it into the water, wipes the chocolate from the corners of her mouth. She frowns a bit. “I’m not a baby.”

“Sorry.”

She sighs and rolls her eyes. “It’s all right. My daddy does that, too.”

She hasn’t asked the question he is afraid to answer, _who shot my daddy?_ Maybe she’s not ready for that information. If she had asked, he would have to answer honestly. But she hasn’t asked.

“Are you going to be my other dad?” She is sliding off the chair, struggling to find the armhole in her jacket.

“Other dad?”

“Carly has two moms, but she said I can’t have two dads.”

“Why not?”

“Because she’s dumb. She said…”

With a groan of frustration, she throws the jacket on the floor. He picks it up and sorts out the lining, slips her arms into the sleeves. “What did she say?”

“That men don’t love each other.” She looks up at him tentatively.

“You’re right,” he says, kneeling down to zip her jacket. “Carly is dumb. I love your dad. And I love you.”

She looks at him with John’s eyes, her lips turning up in his smile. “I know.” She grabs his hand. “Let’s go.”

“Tie or book?”

She shakes her head. “I’m going to write my own book. It’s about me and Bilbo. An adventure story. We solve crimes and put bad guys in jail.”

“Can I read it when you’re done?”

“‘Course. You’re going to be in it.”

 

2014 January 29

— _I’m picking you up at three.SH_

— You have the license, right?

— _I do. SH_

_— Wear a tie. SH_

_— No jumper. SH_

_—_ Did you think I was going to wear a jumper to my wedding?

— _You love jumpers. It seemed like a possibility. SH_

_— And Canadians wear jumpers for all occasions. Even weddings. SH_

_—_ People give me jumpers I do not ask for. I’m not sure why.

— _Because you’re cuddly. ;-} SH_

— Are you flirting with me?

— ;-* _SH_

— You know you can stop signing your texts now. You’ve been in my contacts for five years.

_— Tradition. Wear the blue suit. With the tie that matches your eyes. SH_

— You never wear ties. Why do I have to wear one?

— _Because Rosie wants you to. SH_

—She wants you to wear one, too. In fact, she’s demanding to wear one herself.

— _Very well. SH_

_— Just heard from Mrs Hudson. SH_

— Landlady, right?

— _Yes. She’s having the upstairs bedroom painted. SH_

— Not pink. Rosie hates pink. No purple either.

_— I am not an idiot, John. I know our daughter’s favourite colour is green. SH_

_— OUR daughter :-DSH_

_—_ I bet Mrs Hudson misses you.

— _Perhaps. If she’s forgiven me for dying. SH_

— I hope she likes me.

— _Given my past errors in romantic judgement, she has been silent on the subject of my matrimonial success. SH_

— _But she will love you. SH_

— One way or another, we’ll know in a week.

— Just got an email with the flight info. 

_— Mycroft is here. He’s taken care of your immigration papers. SH_

— It will be nice to finally meet him.

_— No, it won’t. But I suppose it must happen. SH_

— Bilbo’s got his vet papers signed.

— He’s wearing a tie as well.

— _I will not be out-classed by a dog. It’s time for me to shower and dress. SH_

_— For our wedding. :-DSH_

_—_ Me too. I can’t believe this is happening.

— _Can’t you? Did you imagine us, thirty years from now, still meeting up in a different city every year? SH_

— No. But I thought that was all you wanted.

— And every year we met up, I thought about how it would be the last time.

— _And then I died. SH_

— And then you came back. You saved my daughter, and now you’ve saved me as well.

— I hate to think what my life would have been if you hadn’t seen me doing drunk karaoke in Frankfurt.

— Now that I think about it, I have no idea what possessed you to buy me that drink.

— Obviously, it wasn’t my singing skills.

— _Obviously. SH_

_— No, it was you, John Watson. You possessed me. SH_

_—_ God, I love you. Let’s get married.

— _That is precisely what I intend to do. See you at three. SH_


End file.
